THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


GIFT  OF 

A.L.D.  Warner 


THE    GATEWAY    TO    THE    SAHARA 

OBSERVATIONS    AND    EXPERIENCES    IN    TRIPOLI 


The  Arbar-Arsat 

Through  TripoH's  byways 


THEJiATEWAY  TO  THE 
SAHARA 

OBSERVATIONS  AND  EXPERIENCES 
IN  TRIPOLI 

BY 

CHARLES  WELLINGTON  FURLONG,  F.R.G.S. 


WITH   ILLtrSTRATIONS    BY   THE   AUTHOR   FROM    PAINTINGS 

IN   COLOR,    DRAWINGS    IN   BLACK   AND 

WHITE,    AND    PHOTOGRAPHS 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1909 


Copyright,  1909,  bt 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  September,  1909 


^0 

MY  WIFE 


PREFACE 

Tripoli,  in  Barbary,  is  the  only  Mohamme- 
dan-ruled state  in  Northern  Africa,  the  last 
Turkish  possession  on  that  continent,  and  out- 
side its  own  confines  is  little  known. 

Nowhere  in  Northern  Africa  can  the  life  of 
town,  oasis,  and  desert  be  found  more  native 
and  typical  than  in  Tripolitania.  How  long 
before  the  primitive  customs  of  this  people  will 
give  way  before  the  progressive  aggression  of 
some  Christian  power,  and  the  picture  of  an 
ancient  patriarchal  life  be  tarnished  with  the 
cheap  veneer  of  a  commercial  vanguard,  may 
be  answered  any  morning  by  the  cable  news  of 
the  daily  paper. 

The  great  dynamic  forces  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion cause  events  to  march  with  astounding 
swiftness.  Tripoli,  in  Barbary,  is  already  in 
the  eye  of  Europe;  to-morrow  the  Tripoli  of 
to-day  may  have  vanished. 

We  have  recently  skirted  the  edge  of  Morocco 
with  the  French  legions,  sojourned  for  a  while 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

in  far-famed  Biskra,  wandered  in  Southern 
Tunisia  and  felt  the  charm  and  subtile  influ- 
ence of  the  Garden  of  Allah,  and  have  visited 
the  Pyramids — by  electric  car.  But  that  vast 
middle  region,  Tripoli,  where  the  great  range 
of  the  Atlas  runs  to  sand  and  the  mighty  desert 
meets  the  sea,  has  been  left  unentered,  unde- 
scribed. 

June,  1904,  found  me  a  second  time  in  North 
Africa ;  previously  it  was  Morocco,  the  western- 
most outpost  of  the  Orient,  now  it  was  Tripoli, 
the  easternmost  state  of  Barbary.  A  specially 
vised  Turkish  passport  let  me  into  The  Gate- 
way to  the  Sahara — the  first  American  to  enter 
in  two  years. 

Within  these  pages  by  word  and  picture  I 
have  endeavored  to  give  an  insight  into  this 
most  native  of  the  Barbary  capitals,  its  odd  and 
fascinating  customs,  industries,  and  incidents; 
a  view  of  those  strange  and  interesting  people 
who  inhabit  the  oases  and  table-lands  of  Tripoli- 
tania,  their  primitive  methods  and  patriarchal 
life;  an  account  of  the  hazardous  vocation  of 
the  Greek  sponge  divers  off  the  Tripoli  coast; 
a  story  of  the  circumstances  surrounding  the 
dramatic  episode  of  the  burning  of  the  United 

[viii] 


PREFACE 

States  Frigate  Philadelphia  in  1804,  and  of  my 
discovery  of  the  wrecked  hull  below  the  waters 
of  Tripoli  harbor  in  1904;  a  narrative  of  some 
personal  adventures  which  occurred  during  a 
trip  alone  with  Arabs  over  some  tw^o  hundred 
miles  of  the  Great  Sahara;  and  a  description 
of  the  daily  life  and  vicissitudes  of  the  camel 
and  the  Saharan  caravans,  of  the  trails  over 
which  they  travel,  and  of  the  great  wastes  which 
surround  them. 

In  recording  the  impressions  of  town  and 
desert  it  has  been  my  endeavor  throughout  this 
volume  with  pen  and  with  brush  to  paint  with 
full  color,  to  surround  fact  with  its  proper  at- 
mosphere and  to  set  it  against  its  most  telling 
background.  Events  are  described  so  far  as 
possible  in  their  order  of  sequence,  but  it  has 
seemed  preferable  to  present  them  in  subject 
completeness  rather  than  in  diary  form.  The 
history  of  Tripolitania  has  been  practically 
eliminated  from  the  body  of  the  book,  being 
condensed  within  a  four -page  **  Historical 
Note." 

The  native  words  introduced,  are  for  the  most 
part  in  common  use  among  the  few  English  and 
other  foreigners,  and  are  usually  Arabic  or  local 

[ix] 


PREFACE 

vernacular  modifications  of  it;  throughout  the 
most  simplified  spelling  has  been  adhered  to. 
Translation  is  in  most  cases  parenthetically 
given  with  the  first  occurrence  of  a  foreign  word 
and  also  in  the  glossary,  when  a  word  is  re- 
peated. 

Of  that  portion  of  the  material  which  has  al- 
ready been  presented  in  magazine  articles,  the 
main  part  has  appeared  in  Harper  s  Magazine; 
the  remainder  in  The  World's  Worky  The  Out- 
look, and  Appleto7i's  Magazine. 

My  sincere  acknowledgments  are  due  to 
my  friend  Mr.  William  F.  Riley,  of  Tripoli, 
Consul  for  Norway  and  the  Netherlands,  who 
by  his  ever-helpful  advice  and  untiring  efforts 
rendered  me  invaluable  service;  to  Mr.  Alfred 
Dickson,  then  British  Vice-Consul,  for  his 
timely  help  and  interest;  to  the  rest  of  that  little 
coterie  of  kind  friends  in  Tripoli  who  showed 
me  every  courtesy  and  attention  during  my 
sojourn  there — Mr.  Arthur  Saunders,  in  charge 
of  the  cable  station,  M.  Auguste  Zolia,  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Austro- Hungarian  Consulate,  and 
Mr.  W.  H.  Venables;  also  to  Redjed  Pasha  for 
numerous  privileges  and  kind  assistance;  to 
the   Greek  naval  oflBcers  and  sailors  stationed 

[x] 


PREFACE 

at  Tripoli  for  generous  aid  in  work  over  the 
wreck  of  the  United  States  Frigate  Philadel- 
phia— in  particular  to  Captain  Batsis,  Dr. 
Georges  Sphines,  and  Dr.  St.  Zografidis;  to 
Mr.  David  Todd,  Professor  of  Astronomy,  Am- 
herst College,  for  letters;  to  Rabbi  Mordecai 
Kohen,  librarian  of  the  synagogue,  and  to  faith- 
ful black  Salam  who  proved  his  worth  in  time 
of  need. 

C.  W.  F. 


[xi) 


CONTENTS 


Historical  Note xxiii 

A  sketch  of  Tripolitania  from  prehistoric  times  to  to- 
day. 

CHAPTER  ONE 


Tripoli  in  Barbary 1 

Tripoli — Its  political  and  geographical  status — De- 
scription— Tripoli's  seclusion  from  Mediterranean 
highways — Its  coast-line — Tripolitania — Govern- 
ment— Location — Landing — Customs — Tragedy  at 
well — Quarters — The  Arbar-Arsat — Beggars — Oph- 
thalmia— Types — Native  races  of  Tripoli — Foreign- 
ers— Religious  classification — Picturesque  aspects — 
Roman  ruins — Arch  of  Marcus  Aurelius — Population 
— Bazaars — Types — Visual  impressions — Stealing 
camels — Superstition  of  the  "evil  eye" — Fetiches — 
Turkish  Club — The  Castle — Tragedy  of  an  escaped 
prisoner. 

CHAPTER  TWO 

Town  Scenes  and  Incidents 23 

View  from  Lokanda — Building  construction — A  flood 
— Night  sounds — Wedding  procession — A  thief — 
The  Mosque  of  the  Steps — A  romance — A  night  ad- 
venture— The  country  of  thirst — Tripoli  contrasts — 
Arab  character — Islamism — An  Arab  house — Moor- 
ish women — Old  silver — Turkish  taxation  and 
tithes — Tripolitan  character. 

CHAPTER  THREE 

Outside  the  Walls 38 

Agriculture — Yoke    of   taxation — Cultivable    areas — 
Ancient  customs — Soil,  rain,  and  crops — Meaning  of 
oasis — Method  of  irrigation — Tripoli  from  the  desert 
[xiii] 


CONTENTS 


— Date  palms — Their  value — Markets  or  suks — 
Transportation — Horses — Description  of  the  Tues- 
day Market — A  market  crowd — A  knife  seller — 
Character  of  Arab  merchants — An  Arab  sharper — 
Arab  barbers — Fruit — Corn  sellers — Butcher  shops 
— A  marabout — Coffee  houses — A  mental  mirage — 
Two  points  of  view. 

CHAPTER  FOUR 
Salam,  a  Hausa  Slave 52 

Black  nomads — Salam — Slave  statistics — Hausaland — 
Hausas — Slavery — Slave  rights — Slave  traffic — 
Tribute-paying  system — Freedom — Salam 's  capture 
— Slave  life — Gambling — Cowries — Gambling  away 
freedom — Bashaws'  persecution — Salam's  master 
resists  Bashaw — Salam  sold — Kano — Trade  of  Kano 
and  Sudan — ^Tuaregs — Products  of  Kano — Slave  car- 
avans— Kola  nuts — Salam's  journey — A  Tuareg 
fight — Kola  nuts — Salam  sold  several  times — His 
master  Hadji  Ahmed — Escapes  to  Ouragla — Tends 
camels — Second  escape — Sufferings  of  the  journey 
— Reach  Ghadames — Sent  to  Tripoli — Arrival  in 
Tripoli — Obtains  freedom — Sala  Heba — Hadji  Ah- 
med again — Plan  for  Salam's  recapture — Scheme 
foiled — A  Sudanese  dance — A  brush  with  Black 
fanatics — Salam's  courage. 

CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  Masked  Tuaregs 77 

The  masked  Tuaregs — Tuareg  confederation — Tuareg 
territory — Character — Methods  of  brigandage — 
Dangers  of  the  trails — Reprisals — Tuareg  convoys 
— Adventure  of  two  French  officers — Tuaregs  of 
white  race — Religion — Character — Massacre  of 
White  Fathers — Flatters  expedition — Marriage — 
Women — Social  system — Tuareg  slaves — First  Tu- 
aregs seen — ^Tuareg  costumes — Weapons — Shadow- 
ing— Unsuccessful  attempt  to  photograph  them — 
Asgar  Tuaregs — Bartering — The  Tuareg  mask — 
The  Sect  of  the  Senusi — The  telek  and  other  Tuareg 
weapons — The  Asgars  again — The  pictiu-e  obtained, 
[xiv] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  SIX 

PAan 

The  Discovery  of  the  U.  S.  Frigate  "Philadel- 
phia"      100 

The  Mediterranean — Bashaws'  Castle — Grounding  of 
U.  S.  Frigate  Philadelphia — The  surrender — The 
burning  by  Decatur — Local  traditions — Jewish  rec- 
ords found — Hadji-el-Ouachi — An  Arab  tradition 
— The  old  Arab's  story — Old  guns — Bushagour's 
houses — More  specific  results — Start  to  explore  har- 
bor— Discovery  of  a  vessel's  ribs  below  water — The 
Philadelphia— Diving — Condition  of  the  vessel — 
Second  expedition  with  machine  boats  and  sponge 
divers — Size,  position,  and  location  of  wreck  deter- 
mined— Third  and  last  expedition — Sponge  divers 
again — Parts  brought  to  surface. 

CHAPTER  SEVEN 
The  Greek  Sponge  Divers 120 

Tripoli's  three  principal  industries — Minor  industries 
and  resources — Tripoli  Harbor — Commerce  of  Port 
of  Tripoli — Casualties  of  one  month — Quicksands 
and  reefs — Barbary  ports — Arab  galleys — Exports 
— The  sponge  grounds — Some  unpleasant  facts — 
Treatment  of  Greek  sponge  divers — Greek  hospi- 
tal staff — Methods  of  diving — Divers'  paralysis — 
Theory  concerning  it — Cure — A  fatal  case — Aboard 
a  sponge  boat — Methods  of  fishing — A  sponge  fleet — 
Depth  and  time  of  diving — Diver  and  shark — Pre- 
paring for  the  season — Outfitting — Contract  condi- 
tions— Pay — The  day's  work — Preparing  for  the  de- 
scent— The  descent — Obtaining  sponges — Qualities 
— What  the  diver  sees — Manner  of  ascent — Brutality 
practised — Preparation  of  sponges — Value — Bleach- 
ing— Night  on  a  sponge  boat — The  end  of  the  season. 

CHAPTER  EIGHT 

The  Esparto  Pickers 145 

Esparto  grass  or  halfa — Esparto  regions — Esparto 
pickers — Description  of  grass — Wages — Methods  of 
gathering — Dangers — Consequences — Loading  cam- 

[XV] 


CONTENTS 

rAOB 

els  —  Haifa  season  —  Transporting  —  Dangers  en 
route — Importance  of  esparto  trade — Its  use — 
Amount  exported — The  Suk-el-Halfa — Methods  of 
auctioning  the  scales — Methods  of  buying — Market 
values — Weighing — Ancient  devices — ^Transferring 
to  private  suks — An  accident — Black  workers — A 
ead  scene — Qualities  of  esparto — Scorpions — Hy- 
draulic presses — Baling  up — The  day's  work — Pay- 
ing off — The  Black  village — An  incoming  steamer 
— Exportation  of  halfa — American  shipping — Pre- 
paring halfa  for  shipment — ^Manner  of  shipping — 
Disasters — ^Thieving  propensities  of  stevedores — A 
dire  instance — Relative  importance  of  trade — A 
eimiming  up — Its  other  uses. 

CHAPTER  NINE 

The  Caravan  Trade 173 

The  gateway  to  the  Sahara — ^The  Sahara — Area — Popu- 
lation— The  trade  routes — Ghadames — The  Caravan 
trade — Tripoli  merchants — Profits  and  losses — Cara- 
vans— Sudanese  marts — The  voyage — Cargoes — 
Camels  used — Caravan  sheiks — The  firman — Priv- 
ilege for  an  Occidental  to  travel — Securing  a  drago- 
man— Outfitting — The  horse-trader — Starting  with 
a  caravan — Meeting  the  caravan  sheik — Mohammed 
Ga-wah-je — Through  the  oasis — A  caravan  on  the 
march  at  night — A  stop  at  Fonduk-el-Tajura — 
Fonduks  described — The  caravan  at  rest — ^The  day's 
fare — Night  in  the  fonduk — The  start — Early  morn- 
ing— The  desert — Caravan  trails — The  warm  rains 
— Wells — Manner  of  travelling — ^The  midday  rest — 
Uses  and  abuses  of  the  baracan — Passing  caravans. 

CHAPTER  TEN 

Desert  Incidents 193 

Bedawi  —  Manner  of  life  —  Occupations  —  Women 
— ^Appearances — Labor — Social  system — A  home- 
ward-bound caravan — Its  merchandise — A  high 
temperature — Monotony  of  travel — Fascination  of 
little  things — Caravaneers — Desert  thieves — ^The 
sand-storm — Murzuk — Slaves — The  Sect  of  the  Se- 
nusi — A  bit  of  deception — A  camp  in  a  garden — 
[xvi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Night  marauders — The  old  caravaneer's  story — A 
caravan  attacked — Value  of  goods  lost — Tripoli's 
caravan  trade  diminishing. 

CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

Camel  Trails       208 

Acquaintance  with  the  camel — ^An  epitome  of  the 
desert — His  history — Kinds  of  camels — Bargaining 
— Breeds  of  camels — Meaning  of  dromedary — Rid- 
ing a  baggager — Driving  a  camel — Camels  in  market 
— Feeding — The  camel  market — Breeding  places — 
Camel  raisers — Buying  a  camel — Biters — Means  of 
defence  and  attack — Character — Camel  doctor — 
Passing  in  a  narrow  way — A  mehari  or  riding  camel 
— Comparison  with  draft  camel — Manner  of  riding 
— Equipment — ^Travelling  abihty  of  mehara — Dis- 
mounting— Closer  acquaintance  with  the  camel — 
Physical  characteristics — Hallil  and  his  white  nakat 
(she  camel) — Drinking — Adjustment  of  loads — 
Saddles — Camel's  adaptation  to  environment — 
Desert  songs — Camel  lore — A  black  camel — Manner 
of  driving  camels — Punishment — Mortality — Dan- 
gers of  bad  ground — Old  Bakri  and  his  blind  camel 
— ^A  camel's  last  days. 

CHAPTER  TWELVE 

A  Night's  Ride  with  Arab  Bandits     ....     234 

Desert  travelling — People  met  with — Consideration  of 
diet — Clothes — Camping  outfit — Obtaining  food — 
Birds — Bedawi — Boundary  marks — Hard  travel- 
ling— Muraiche  suspected — Arrival  at  Khoms — 
The  burden  of  the  trail — Audience  with  Governor — 
Visit  Roman  ruins — A  Roman  harbor — Grounds  for 
suspicion — Men  mutiny — Start  for  Kussabat  delayed 
— Good  advice — A  late  start — View  of  Khoms — 
Guard  unwelcome  —  Leadership  decided  —  Night 
schemes — Apprehensions — Small  caravan  passed — 
Followed  by  thieves — Attempt  to  ambush — Strat- 
egy necessary — Use  Muraiche  as  screen — Ali  tries  to 
run — Mohammed  attempts  to  strike — Reached  Kus- 
sabat— Sleep  on  a  fonduk  roof — The  reason  for 
treachery — Guard  leaves — Journey  continued — a 
brief  rest — ^A  night's  sleep, 
[xvii] 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

PAGE 

A  Desert  Episode 263 

A  desert  fortress — Suspected — A  desert  hostelry — 
Native  curiosity — A  Turkish  officer — Cross  examina- 
tion— Firman  demanded — Officer  intrudes — An  un- 
welcome invitation — An  Arabian  night — The  Turk 
returns — Attempts  force — Remain  at  lokanda — 
Lokanda  locked  for  the  night — Go  outside — Lo- 
kanda under  surveillance — Awakened  by  soldier — 
Officer  appears — Accompanies  us — Later  sends 
soldiers — Fast  travelling — The  guards  tire — Guards 
eluded — Accosted  by  Zabtie — Reach  Tripoli — See 
Pasha. 

CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

The  Desert 279 

The  call  of  the  desert — Its  area — Character — Desert 
races — Water — Wells — Sand  formations  —  Sand- 
storms— Passing  caravans — Desert  as  a  highway — 
Ancient  peoples — Economic  possibilities — Economic 
value  of  desert — Past  and  present — A  desert  theory 
— Sudan  encroaching — A  desert  night — Tripoli  to- 
day and  to-morrow. 

Glossary 299 

Index       .    .  303 


[xviii] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Arhar-Arsat.     {In  color) Frontispiece 

Facing  page 

The  end  of  the  great  caravan  route  from  the  Sudan  as 

it  enters  Tripoli 8 

"In  the  heart  of  Tripoli  stands  .  .  .  tJie  Arch  of 

Marcus  Aurelius" 14 

"A    barefooted    haker    moulds    coarse    dough    into 

.  .  .  rouruied  loaves^' 18 

The  result  of  the  flood 24 

Rows  of  shops  by  the  Market  Gate,  where  the  caravans 

"outfit"        32 

Cap  sellers  in  the  shadow  of  the  Mosque  ofSidi  Hamet  36 

Road  through  the  Oasis  of  Tripoli 42 

A  primitive  method  of  transportation 46 

Market  outside  Tripoli's  walls,  castle  and  cemetery  on 

the  right 50 

Salam,  tJie  Hausa 54 

A  Hausa  Bashaw.     (In  color) 60 

Sudanese  blacks  announcing  a  religious  dance       .     .  70 

"  We  came  into  full  view  of  a  barbaric  Sudanese  dance  "  74 

A  raiding  band  of  Tuareg  serfs 88 

[xix] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 

"  From  the  near  side  of  a  camel,  I  took  the  picture  "  .     .  98 

"We  came  to  a  Jieap  of  .  .  .  rust-eaten  cannon"  .     .  106 

Machine-boat  and  diver  from  Greek  Navy  at  work 

over  the  "Philadelphia" 114 

"  The  bag  of  dark,  heavy  sponges  .  .  .  was  hauled 

aboard" 134 

A  deposit  boat 142 

Weighing  esparto  grass  in  the  Suk-el-Halfa.     (In 

color)       156 

" Strode  away  vnth  the  bier  of  their  tribesman"    .     .  162 

A  black  sheik 170 

Fonduk-el-Tajura 184 

Trade  caravan  resting  in  the  heat  of  the  day    .     .     .  192 

"A  homeward-bound  garfla  suddenly  loomed  up  be- 
fore us"       198 

Muraiche  and  men  descending  a  desert  defile    .     .     .  204 

A  camel  pasture 216 

Mehar a  feeding  from  a  stone  manger 228 

"  The  afterglow  .  .  .  against  which  moved  the  dark 

shapes  of  horses  and  men" 248 

"  The  guard  left  us  the  next  morning" 260 

"His  .  .  .  hand  shot  out  and  seized  me  strongly  by 

the  wrist" 270 

"We  gave  the  animals  full  rein  and  dashed  down  the 

ravine" 276 

[XX] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 

A  Bedaween  caravan  on  the  march,  with  a  sandstorm 

approaching.     {In  color) 282 

"Like  fossilized     waves   of  tlie    sea,  .  .  .  crossing 

.  .  .  each  other  in  endless  monotony^*  ....     288 

"  Rolling  dunes  of  sand  .  .  .  take  on  shapes  weird  and 

picturesque" 294 


MAPS 

Page 

Map  of  Northern  Africa,  showing  present  political 

divisions  and  principal  caravan  routes      ...         3 

Map  of  the  town  and  harbor  of  Tripoli 118 

Map  of  Tripolitania 174 


[xxi] 


HISTORICAL  NOTE 

A  SKETCH  OF  TRIPOLITANIA  FROM  PRE-HISTORIC 
TIMES   TO   TO-DAY 

Twelve  centuries  before  Christ,  Phoenician 
traders  had  worked  their  way  along  the  southern 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean  and  up  its  oleander- 
fringed  rivers,  until  their  galley  keels  grated  on 
the  fertile  shores  of  Lybia  [Tunisia].  Here 
hordes  of  armed  warriors,  swarming  ashore, 
planted  their  standards  high  above  the  fragrant 
broom  which  covered  the  golden  hillsides,  and 
as  centuries  rolled  by,  Outili  [Utica]  and  other 
cities  were  reared,  among  them  Carthage. 

At  the  close  of  the  Third  Punic  War,  Carthage 
lay  in  ruins  and  the  whole  coast  territory  of 
Africa,  from  the  Pyramids  to  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  became  subject  to  the  Romans,  and 
the  territory  we  now  know  as  Tripolitania,  a 
province  of  the  Caesars. 

Three  cities,  Leptis,  Sabrata,  and  Oea,  an- 
ciently  constituted   a  federal  union  known   as 

[xxiii] 


HISTORICAL  NOTE 

Tripolis,  while  the  district  governed  by  their 
Concilium  Annum  was  called  Lybia  Tripoli- 
tania.  On  the  site  of  Oea  modern  Tripoli,  in 
Barbary,  now  stands.  Tripolis  suffered  the 
varying  fortunes  of  a  Roman  African  colony, 
the  yoke  weighing  heaviest  under  Count  Ro- 
manus  in  the  reign  of  Valentinium,  A.  D.  364. 
Then  came  the  sacking  by  the  Austerians  and 
wild  native  tribes  from  the  deserts,  encouraged 
by  the  policy  of  Genseric,  the  invading  Vandal 
king. 

Before  the  reign  of  Constans  II,  641-668,  we 
find  the  name,  wealth,  and  inhabitants  of  the 
province  gradually  centred  in  Oea,  the  mari- 
time capital  of  Tripolis;  647  A.  D.  saw  the 
beginning  of  the  great  Arab  invasion,  which, 
gathering  force,  sent  the  resistless  tidal  wave  of 
the  Jehad  [Holy  War]  sweeping  across  Barbary. 
It  broke  down  what  was  left  of  Roman  rule, 
merged  the  wild  Berber  aborigines  into  the  great 
sea  of  Islam,  inundated  Spain,  flooded  even  to 
the  gates  of  Poitiers  before  it  was  checked, 
then,  slowly  receding,  finally  found  its  level 
south  of  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar  and  the  Middle 
Sea. 

Since  that  remote  past  the  flags  of  various 

[xxiv] 


HISTORICAL  NOTE 

nations  of  the  Cross  have  for  brief  periods  flung 
their  folds  in  victory  over  this  Moslem  strong- 
hold. When  the  caravels  of  Charles  V,  of 
Spain,  were  making  conquests  in  Mexico  and 
Peru,  that  monarch  presented  Tripoli  and 
Malta  to  the  Knights  of  St.  John  on  their  ex- 
pulsion from  Rhodes  by  the  Turkish  Sultan, 
Soliman  the  Magnificent.  Later,  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  Soliman  drove  them  from  Trip- 
oli and  received  the  submission  of  the  Barbary 
States. 

In  1714  the  Arabs  of  Tripoli  gained  inde- 
pendence from  their  Turkish  rulers  and  for 
over  a  century  were  governed  by  their  own 
bashaws. 

In  1801,  on  account  of  the  unbearable  piracy 
of  the  Tripolitans,  war  was  declared  between 
Tripoli  and  the  United  States.  In  1804,  but 
for  the  blocking  by  our  government  of  the 
scheme  and  land  expedition  of  General  William 
Eaton  when  Tripoli  was  within  his  grasp,  the 
sixteen-starred  banner  of  the  United  States,  too, 
would  undoubtedly  for  a  time  have  supplanted 
the  Flag  of  the  Prophet.  Thus,  not  only  would 
the  imprisoned  crew  of  the  Philadelphia  in 
Tripoli  have  been  freed,  but  our  shame  as  a 

[xxv] 


HISTORICAL  NOTE 

tribute-paying    nation    to    the    Barbary    States 
mitigated.     Peace  was  concluded  in  1805. 

Thirty  years  later  Tripoli  again  came  under 
Turkish  rule,  since  which  time  the  crescent 
flag  of  the  Ottoman  has  waved  there  undisturbed 
and  Tripoli  has  continued  to  steep  herself  in 
the  spirit  of  Islam,  indifferent  and  insensible 
to  the  changes  of  the  outer  world. 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE 
SAHARA 

CHAPTER  ONE 

TRIPOLI    IN    BARBARY 

BRITAIN  holds  Egypt,  France  has  seized 
Algeria  and  Tunisia  with  one  hand  and  is 
about  to  grasp  Morocco  with  the  other,  but 
Tripolitania  has  escaped  the  international  grab- 
bag  of  Europe  and  still  dwells  native  and  seques- 
tered among  the  great  solitudes  which  surround 
her.  Tucked  away  in  a  pocket  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, five  hundred  miles  from  the  main  high- 
ways of  sea  travel,  transformed  and  magnified 
under  the  magic  sunlight  of  Africa,  Tripoli,'  the 
white-burnoosed  city,  lies  in  an  oasis  on  the  edge 
of  the  desert,  dipping  her  feet  in  the  swash  and 
ripple  of  the  sea. 

I  first  saw  her  through  my  cabin  port-hole 
when,    gray-silvered,    the    half    light    of    dawn 

*  The  name  Tripoli  is  applied  to  both  the  Pashalic  of  Tripoli  and 
the  city,  and  occasionally  to  Tripolitania,  the  territory. 

[1] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

slowly  filtered  through  the  tardy  night  mists  and 
mingled  with  the  rose  flush  of  approaching  day. 
Two  silver  moons  dimly  floated,  one  in  a  gray 
silver  sky,  the  other  in  a  gray  silver  sea.  A  strip 
of  shore  streaked  between;  in  gray  stencilled 
silhouette  a  Moorish  castle  broke  the  centre  of 
its  sky-line ;  slender  minarets,  flat  housetops,  and 
heavy  battlements  flanked  in  a  crescent  west- 
ward, and  the  delicate  palm  fringe  of  the  oasis 
dimmed  away  east.  The  adan — call  to  prayer — 
drifted  away  over  the  sleeping  city  and  harbor. 
The  gilded  crescents  of  the  green-topped  min- 
arets in  glints  of  orange-gold  heliographed  the 
coming  of  the  rising  sun:  the  shadows  of  night 
seemed  to  sink  below  the  ground-line,  and  the 
white-walled  city  lay  shimmering  through  a 
transparent  screen  of  wriggling  heat-waves. 

The  coast  of  North  Africa  from  Tunis  east- 
ward does  not  meet  the  converging  water  routes 
short  of  its  eastern  extremity  at  Suez.  Along 
the  seaboard  of  this  territory  the  Mediterranean 
laps  the  desert  sand  and  over  the  unbounded 
sun-scorched  reaches  of  Tripoli  and  Barca,  to 
the  border-land  of  Egypt,  wild  tribes  control  the 
vast  wastes. 

The  great  territory  of  Tripolitania  embraces 
[2] 


s  -^ 


ri         S 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

what  is  known  as  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli,  the 
Fezzan  to  the  south,  and  the  province  of  Barca 
on  the  east,  governed  as  an  integral  part  of  Tur- 
key. The  Pashalic  of  Tripoli  includes  that  por- 
tion of  the  vilayet  extending  from  Tunisia  to  the 
southernmost  point  of  the  Gulf  of  Sidra.  Of  all 
Barbary,^  Tripolitania  is  most  truly  African. 

It  is  situated  equally  distant  from  the  three 
entrances  of  the  Mediterranean  and  is  the  focus 
of  the  three  great  caravan  routes  from  the  South. 
Tripoli's  freedom  from  European  occupation 
may  be  attributed  to  three  causes:  her  isolation 
from  the  main  highways  of  commerce,  the  ap- 
parent sterility  of  her  desert  plateaus  as  com- 
pared with  the  more  fertile  Atlas  regions  of  the 
other  Barbary  states,  and  the  fact  that  she  is  a 
vilayet  of  the  Turkish  Empire. 

The  anchor  chain  rattled  through  the  hawse- 
pipe  of  the  S.  S.  Adria.  Her  nose  swung  slowly 
into  the  wind,  a  soft  south  wind  laden  with  all 
those  subtle  and  mysterious  influences  of  that 
strange  land,  tempting  one  on  against  its  gentle 
pressure,  as  though  to  lure  him  far  back  into 
those  desert  reaches  from  whence  it  came. 

'Barbary  (Berbery)  included  the  four  states — Morocco,  Algeria, 
Tunisia,  and  Tripolitania. 

[4] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

A  knock  at  the  door  of  my  cabin,  and  a  short, 
wiry  Englishman  looked  out  from  beneath  a 
broad  panama  which  shaded  his  keen,  laughing 
eyes. 

He  extended  his  hand.  "I'm  William  Riley; 
our  friend's  letters  reached  me  and  I've  just 
come  aboard;  but  I  say,  bustle  up,  if  you  want 
to  get  through  with  those  Turks  at  the  Custom- 
House.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you,"  and  he  did  as 
soon  as  I  mentioned  certain  articles  in  my  outfit. 

**It  might  go  badly  with  either  of  us  if  we 
sit  down  too  hard  on  this  ammunition,"  he 
remarked,  glancing  at  the  bagging  seat  of  my 
trousers,  as  we  stepped  upon  the  stone  customs' 
quay  from  the  Arab  galley  which  brought  us 
ashore. 

My  viseed  passport  was  sent  to  Redjed  Pasha,* 
the  Turkish  Military  Governor.  The  customs 
passed,  two  Arabs  with  my  luggage  followed  in 
our  wake  up  the  narrow  streets  of  one  of  the 
most  Oriental  coast  towns  of  North  Africa — 
Tripoli,  the  Gateway  to  the  Sahara. 

As  we  left  the  Custom-House,  ]\Ir.  Riley 
pointed  to  a  well  curb  on  our  right.  '*  A  few  days 
ago  a  Greek  merchant  engaged  some  men  to 

'  Pasha  is  Turkish,  Bashaw  Arabic,  for  chief,  Bey  or  Governor. 

[5] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

clean  out  that  well,  which  for  years  has  been  a 
receptacle  for  refuse  of  all  kinds.  The  first  Arab 
to  go  down  was  overcome  at  the  bottom  by 
poisonous  gases;  a  second  descended  to  assist 
him  and  was  overcome;  likewise  a  third,  a 
fourth,  a  fifth.  More  would  have  followed  had 
not  the  crowd  prevented.  All  five  lost  their 
lives,  the  last  one  dying  yesterday.  The  Greek 
merchant  who  engaged  them  was  thrown  into 
prison  and  fined  twenty  naps  [napoleons]  because, 
as  the  Turkish  oflScials  charged,  the  men  would 
not  have  died  had  he  not  asked  them  to  go  down." 

During  my  stay  within  the  bastioned  walls  of 
Tripoli,  my  quarters  were  in  a  lokanda  [hostelry] 
kept  by  an  Italian  family.  This  characteristic 
Arab  house,  with  its  plain-walled  exterior  and 
open  square  inner  court  designed  to  capture  as 
little  heat  and  as  much  light  as  possible,  was  on 
the  Arhar-Arsat  [Street  of  the  Four  Columns]. 
No  one  ever  brags  of  the  wideness  of  Arab 
streets,  and  despite  the  fact  that  the  Arbar-Arsat 
was  a  Tripoline  boulevard,  from  necessity  rather 
than  from  choice  I  often  discreetly  retreated  to 
a  doorway  or  side  street  from  an  oncoming  widely 
burdened  camel. 

The  Arbar-Arsat  became  my  friend  and  chron- 
[6] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

icier.  Through  the  busy  hum  and  drone  of 
passers-by  at  morning  and  evening-tide,  through 
the  hot  quiet  of  siesta  time  and  cool  stillness  of 
night,  there  drifted  up  to  my  window  the  story 
of  the  life  of  a  picturesque  people,  replete  in  the 
ever-varying  romance  and  bright  imagery  of  the 
East. 

Daily  under  my  window  a  Black  mother 
ensconced  herself  in  the  doorway  with  her  child, 
where  she  crooned  a  mournful  appeal  to  j>assers- 
by.  Alms  are  often  given  these  town  beggars  by 
their  more  fortunate  brothers,  for  says  the 
Koran,  *'it  is  right  so  to  do."  The  following, 
however,  may  illustrate  an  interesting  but  not 
uncommon  exception  to  the  rule: 

*'In  the  name  of  Allah  give  alms,"  wailed  a 
beggar  to  a  richly  dressed  Moor  who  was  walking 
ahead  of  me. 

"May  Allah  satisfy  all  thy  wants,"  replied  the 
wealthy  one  and  passed  on.  The  wealthy  one 
once  picked  up  bones  for  a  living. 

The  percentage  of  these  beggars  and  other 
natives  troubled  with  ophthalmia  is  very  great  in 
Tripoli,  as  in  many  Oriental  cities,  due  in  part 
to  the  fierce  sun  glare  and  the  fine  desert  sand 
blown  by  the  gibli  [desert  wind],  but  mainly  to 

[7] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  flies.  So  it  is  not  surprising  that  many  of 
these  people  become  blind  through  sheer  igno- 
rance and  lethargy.     But  then — Allah  wills ! 

Tripoli  bestirs  herself  early.  A  few  steps 
down  the  Arbar-Arsat,  my  friend  Hamet,  a  seller 
of  fruits  and  vegetables,  and  his  neighbor,  the 
one-eyed  dealer  in  goods  from  the  Sudan,  take 
down  the  shutters  from  two  holes  in  the  walls, 
spread  their  stock,  and,  after  the  manner  of  all 
good  Mohammedans,  proclaim  in  the  name  of 
the  Prophet  that  their  wares  are  excellent.  The 
majority  of  those  who  drift  along  the  Arbar-Arsat 
are  of  the  four  great  native  races  of  Tripoli: 
Berbers,  descendants  of  the  original  inhabitants; 
Arabs,  progeny  of  those  conquerors  who  overran 
the  country  centuries  ago;  the  native  Jew;  and 
lastly,  itinerant  Blacks  who  migrate  from  the 
South. 

The  Berbers,  like  the  Arabs,  are  a  white-race 
people  whose  countless  hordes  centuries  ago 
flooded  over  Northern  Africa,  coming  from  no 
one  knows  where.  That  one  by  Hamet's  shop 
stops  to  examine  some  figs.  His  baracan,  the 
prevailing  outer  garment  of  Tripolitans,^    has 

'"Tripolitans"  signifies  the  people  of  the  territory,  "Tripoline" 
a  dweller  in  the  town  of  Tripoli. 

[8] 


-3 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

slipped  from  his  head,  which  is  closely  shaved, 
save  for  one  thick  lock  of  hair  just  back  of  the 
top.  Abu  Hanifah,  the  seer,  so  goes  the  story, 
advocated  this  lock  of  hair,  that  in  battle  the 
impure  hands  of  the  infidel  might  not  defile  the 
decapitated  Moslem  mouth  or  beard. 

Whatever  their  station  in  life,  in  appearance 
and  bearing  the  Arabs  of  to-day  are  worthy  sons 
of  their  forbears,  who  forced  kings  of  Europe  to 
tremble  for  their  thrones  and  caused  her  scholars 
to  bow  in  reverence  to  a  culture  and  learning  at 
that  time  unknown  to  the  barbarians  of  the 
North. 

Look  at  the  swarthy  Hamet  in  full  trousers 
and  shirt  of  white  cotton,  squatting  in  the  shadow 
of  his  shop  awning.  As  he  rises  to  greet  a  richly 
dressed  Moor,  Sala  Heba,  the  slave  dealer,  each 
places  his  right  hand  in  turn  on  his  heart,  lips,  and 
forehead,  thus  through  the  temenah  [greeting], 
saying,  "Thou  hast  a  place  in  my  heart,  on  my 
lips,  and  thou  art  always  in  my  thoughts."  Had 
these  two  Arabs  exchanged  the  cotton  garments 
and  the  gold-threaded  turban,  scarlet  haik,  and 
yellow  embroidered  slippers,  neither  would  have 
lost  his  superb  dignity,  for  either  could  well  have 
graced  the  divan  of  a  Bashaw. 

[9] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

The  Blacks,  mostly  nomadic  and  fewest  in 
numbers,  come  from  the  South  to  escape  the  crack 
of  the  slave  whip  or  migrate  in  small  tribes  from 
the  Sudan.  At  no  great  distance  from  Tripoli, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  palm  groves  of  the  oasis, 
a  tribe  of  Hausas  have  erected  their  palm- 
thatched  zerebas.  Within  this  village  they  have 
their  chief  and  laws  after  the  manner  of  the  na- 
tive life  of  the  interior. 

Many  of  these  Blacks  are  caravan  men,  but 
find  employment  in  and  about  the  town.  Often 
along  the  Arbar-Arsat  I  have  watched  these 
powerful  fellows  carry  to  and  from  the  town 
wharves  and  jonduks  [caravansaries]  heavy  loads 
of  merchandise  suspended  on  long  poles  slung 
across  their  shoulders.  Some  of  them  showed  great 
calf  muscles  playing  under  deep-grooved  scars 
like  those  which  slashed  their  cheeks  and  tem- 
ples— brands  either  of  their  tribe  or  of  servitude. 

Last  but  not  least,  however,  is  the  native  Jew. 
In  every  town  of  Barbary  where  the  Arab  tol- 
erates him  there  in  the  Mellah  [Jewish  quarter] 
he  is  found.  Never  seeming  to  belong  there,  yet 
omnipresent  from  the  earliest  times,  he  has  man- 
aged not  only  to  exist  beside  his  Arab  neighbors, 
but  has  thriven. 

[10] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

First  and  most  important  of  the  intrusive 
foreign  element  are  the  Turkish  military  and 
merchants  whose  commander-in-chief  rules  as 
Pasha  of  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli.  He  is  in  com- 
mand of  the  twenty  thousand  troops  who  exer- 
cise general  surveillance  over  the  towns  and 
districts  where  they  are  stationed.  It  is  the  duty 
of  these  scantily  clad  and  poorly  paid  Ottomans 
to  assist  in  collecting  taxes  from  the  poverty- 
stricken  Arabs,  to  protect  caravans  along  the 
coast  routes,  and  enforce  Turkish  administration 
in  a  few  leading  towns  and  their  vicinities. 

Next  in  numbers  are  the  several  hundred 
Italians  and  a  Maltese  colony  of  fisher-folk  who 
live  near  the  Lazaretto  [Quarantine]  by  the  sea. 
Members  of  the  foreign  consulates  and  a  few 
other  Europeans  complete  the  population. 

In  Tripoli  the  religious  classification  of  Mos- 
lem, Jew,  and  Christian  is  most  emphasized 
perhaps  by  their  three  respective  holidays,  Fri- 
day, Saturday,  and  Sunday.  From  the  Western 
point  of  view  this  interferes  somewhat  with  trade, 
but  is  not  felt  by  those  who  would  regard  life  as 
one  long  siesta.  The  extent  to  which  even 
pleasurable  effort  is  disapproved  among  Mo- 
hammedans is  shown  by  the  Pasha's  reply  when 

[11] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

asked  to  join  in  the  dancing  at  one  of  the  consu- 
late affairs.  "Why  should  I  dance,"  replied  his 
Excellency,  "when  I  can  have  some  one  to  dance 
for  me  ?"  The  same  reason  was  offered  by  a  high 
official  for  his  inability  to  read  and  write. 

As  one  wanders  through  the  maze  of  narrow 
streets  the  unexpected  constantly  delights.  Every 
turn  presents  a  new  picture  or  creates  a  fresh 
interest  and  the  commonplace  is  full  of  artistic 
possibilities.  One  soon  overlooks  the  refuse  and 
other  things  objectionable  in  the  compelling 
sense  of  the  picturesque.  Wandering  among 
Tripoli's  sacred  mosques  and  bazaars,  losing  one's 
self  in  the  romantic  maze  of  a  thousand  and  one 
legends,  one's  mind  is  satiated  with  a  cloying 
surfeit  of  perfumed  romance.  It  is  as  difficult  to 
select  from  this  illusive  whole  as  to  tell  at  what 
hour  is  the  supreme  moment  in  which  to  see  her 
— when  the  dew-bejewelled  oasis,  through  which 
crawls  some  slow-moving  caravan,  lies  violet- 
colored  in  the  early  morning;  when  in  the  heat 
of  the  day,  sun-scorched,  every  spot  of  color 
stands  out  like  the  particles  of  a  kaleidoscope; 
at  sunset,  when  desert  and  city  are  bathed  in 
rose;  or  in  the  still  night  when,  blue  pervaded, 
she  rests   hushed   and   ghostlike   on   the   edge 

[12] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

of  the  silent  desert,  the  golden  crescents  of  her 
mosques  turned  to  silver  and  mingling  with  the 
stars. 

Evidences  of  the  Roman  occupation  confront 
one  on  every  hand.  Columns  of  a  Pagan  Rome 
support  the  beautiful  domed  vaultings  of  some 
of  the  mosques  or  are  set  in  as  corner  posts  to  the 
houses  at  every  other  turn,  and  the  drums  thrown 
lengthwise  and  chiselled  flat  are  used  as  steps 
or  door-sills.  Beyond  the  walls  of  the  town 
fragments  of  tessellated  pavement  laid  down  two 
thousand  years  ago  are  occasionally  found.  Two 
Roman  tombs  decorated  with  mural  paintings 
were  recently  discovered  about  a  mile  or  so  from 
the  city.  Unfortunately  I  was  too  late  to  see 
these,  as  the  Turkish  authorities  at  once  ordered 
the  places  filled  in  and  the  spot  was  soon  ob- 
literated by  the  shifting  sand.  At  one  end  of  the 
Arbar-Arsat,  in  the  very  heart  of  Tripoli,  stands 
what  once  must  have  been  one  of  the  most  splen- 
did triumphal  arches  of  antiquity.  It  is  known 
to  the  Moors  as  the  Old  Arch ;  to  the  Europeans, 
as  the  Arch  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  in  whose  honor 
it  was  erected  A.  D.  164. 

What  seems  to  have  been  the  rear  of  this 
triumphal  arch  now  fronts  the  street,  while  its 

[13] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

front  overlooks  a  wall,  below  which  some  pigs 
root  and  grunt  about  in  the  mire.  Much  to 
the  interest  of  a  few  pedestrians,  I  climbed  the 
wall  and  photographed  the  sadly  obliterated 
inscription — an  almost  inaudible  whisper  of  the 
past.  Later,  inscribed  on  the  faded  leaves  of 
an  old  album,*  I  ran  across  a  record  of  this 
inscription  made  over  half  a  century  ago.  It 
read: 

IMP  .   C^S  .  AVRELIO   .  ANTONIN  .  AVQ  .  P.P.ET  . 
IMP.   .   C/SS   .  L.   .  AVRELIO   .  VERO.   .  AMENIACO   .   AVQ  . 
SER  .  —  S.  ORFITUS  .  PROCCOS  .  CVM  .  VTTEDIO  . 
MARCELLO   .  LEG   .  SVG.   .  DEDICAVIT  .  C  .   CALPVRNIVS  . 
CELSVS  .  CVRATOR  .  MVNERIS  .  PVB   .  MVNEPARIVS  . 
IIVIR  .  Q  .  Q  .   FLAMEN   .  PERPTWS.   .  ARCV  . 
MARMORE  .  SOLIDO   .  FECIT 

The  arch  appears  low  and  heavy,  which  is 
not  surprising,  considering  that  it  is  half  buried 
beneath  centuries  of  accumulated  rubbish  and 
wind-blown  desert  sand.  Partly  mortared  up,  it 
now  serves  as  a  shop  for  a  purveyor  of  dried 
fish,  spices,  and  other  wares.  Once  I  entered  its 
interior  to  outfit  for  a  caravan  journey;  many 
other  times  I  visited  it  to  admire  in  the  dim  light 

*  Album  in  possession  of  M.  A.  Zolia,  with  dates  about  1844.  It 
formerly  belonged  to  Dr.  Robert  G.  Dickson  of  Tripoli  uncle  of 
Mr.  AKred  Dickson,  Acting  British  Consul  in  1904, 

[14] 


"  In  the  heart  of  Tripoh  stands  ...   the  Arcli  of  Marcus  Aureh 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

its  beautiful  sculptured  ceiling  and  the  weather- 
worn decorations  of  its  exterior. 

Through  these  narrow,  fascinating  streets  of 
Tripoli  her  thirty  thousand  inhabitants  go 
to  their  tasks  and  pleasures.  Between  series  of 
arches,  which  serve  the  double  purpose  of  re-en- 
forcing the  walls  and  giving  shade,  awnings  are 
stretched  here  and  there.  Under  these  and  in 
little  booths  all  the  industries  necessary  to  the 
subsistence  of  the  town  are  carried  on. 

At  every  hand  one  seems  to  be  enclosed  by  one 
or  two  storied  houses,  whose  bare  walls  with  few 
windows  and  heavily  made  doors  give  little  sug- 
gestion of  the  beauties  of  color  and  craftsman- 
ship those  of  the  better  class  may  contain.  On 
either  side  of  the  streets,  particularly  in  the 
bazaar  quarter,  are  little  hole-in-the-wall  shops, 
as  though  their  owners  had  burrowed  into  the 
walls  of  the  houses,  and  there,  half  hidden  among 
their  goods,  cross-legged  they  squat,  these  mer- 
chants of  the  drowsy  East,  fanning  flies  and 
waiting  for  trade. 

Their  wares  stand  out  in  brilliant  display  of 
burnished  brass,  copper  trays,  hanging  lamps, 
silver-mounted  ebony  snuffboxes,  and  flint-lock 
guns,  handsomely  worked  saddle-bags  and  leather 

[15] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

money  pouches  heavily  embroidered  and  of  Kano 
dye.  In  the  quiet  shadows  of  long  arcades,  men 
pass  noiselessly  in  slippered  feet  over  carpets 
and  rugs  from  Kairwan,  Misurata,  and  the 
farther  East.  Out  in  the  sunlit  streets  a  few  Eu- 
ropeans mix  with  the  native  populace.  Conspic- 
uous among  them  are  heavily  turbaned  Moors^ 
in  fine-textured  burnoose  and  richly  broidered 
vests,  in  strong  contrast  with  camel  men  from  the 
desert,  mufl3ed  in  coarse  gray  baracans.  Then 
there  are  the  blind  beggars,  water-carriers,  and 
occasionally  a  marabout  [holy  man],  who,  like  St. 
John  of  old,  dresses  in  raiment  of  camel's  hair. 

The  whole  moving  mass  was  like  a  great  con- 
fetti-covered stream,  here  pausing,  there  swirling 
and  eddying,  but  ever  flowing  between  banks  and 
islands  of  brilliantly  colored  booths  with  their 
shimmering  Oriental  wares.  Rising  above  it  all, 
caravans  of  camels  forged  quietly  along  with  soft 
and  dignified  tread. 

To  the  casual  Occidental  observer,  undoubt- 
edly the  visual  impressions  are  paramount.  For 
the  atmospheric  color  in  its  semi-tropical  bril- 
liancy serves  to  make  more  effective  and  lumi- 

*The  term  "Moor"  is  a  class  more  than  a  race  distinction.  It 
signifies  a  native  town  dweller  and  is  used  throughout  Barbary, 

[16] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

nous  the  variegated  detail  of  local  color — of 
people,  houses,  mosques,  and  bazaars.  But  to 
one  to  whom  it  is  a  prism  through  which  he 
views  Moorish  thought  and  character  in  deeper 
relationship,  it  has  a  far-reaching  symbolism — 
the  all-pervading  influence  of  Islam. 

Spanning  the  street  of  the  Suk-el-  Turc  [Turks' 
Market]  is  a  trellis-work  covered  with  grape- 
vines. Through  their  green  leaves  and  clusters 
of  purple  fruit  great  splashes  of  sunlight  fall  on 
drowsy  Moors.  Here  most  of  the  oflScial  busi- 
ness is  transacted,  and  notaries  as  well  as  other 
public  oflficials  have  their  oflices.  Near  by  is 
the  principal  mosque,  and  in  the  light  transparent 
shadow  of  its  arcade  sit  the  sellers  of  caps.  The 
bright  glare  of  the  sunlight  makes  it  difficult  to 
see  into  many  of  the  shops,  but  at  the  sound  of  a 
shuttle  one  may  pause  a  moment  and  see  an 
Arab  weaving  on  his  loom  fabrics  of  the  finest 
quality  and  intricate  design.  Near  by  in  an 
opening  blackened  with  smoke  a  barefooted 
baker  moulds  coarse  dough  into  flat,  rounded 
loaves. 

Down  the  street  the  faint  intermittent  tinkling 
of  a  bell  is  heard.  '^ Bur-r-rol"  [Get  out!]  in 
warning  rasps  the  high-pitched  voice  of  a  camel 

[17] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

driver.  I  dodged  quickly  into  the  shop  of  a 
silversmith  and  watched  four  lumbering  camels 
squdge  softly  by.  To  prevent  those  behind  the 
driver  from  being  stolen,  the  halter  rope  of  each 
was  tied  to  the  tail  of  the  one  ahead,  and  on  the 
tail  of  the  last  camel,  as  he  flipped  and  flapped 
it  from  side  to  side  tinkled  a  bell. 

A  wily  one  of  the  Faithful,  not  being  rich  in 
this  world's  goods,  turned  covetous  eyes  on  a 
nomadic  brother  who  passed  through  the  town 
leading  a  string  of  six  camels.  "Allah!  Allah 
ursel  el  Allah !  Could  not  the  brother  spare  one 
of  his  jamal?''  [camels].  So,  dusting  the  flies 
from  his  eyes  and  hooding  himself  with  his 
baracan,  he  stealthily  followed.  He  was  aware 
that  near  the  New  Gate  the  street  narrowed  and 
made  a  double  turn.  No  sooner  had  the  driver 
and  head  camel  rounded  the  first  corner  than  the 
wily  one  seized  the  bell  attached  to  the  hindmost 
camel.  With  a  stroke  of  his  knife  he  severed  it 
from  the  tail  of  the  animal,  and  keeping  it 
tinkling,  quickly  fastened  it  to  the  tail  of  the 
next,  cut  loose  the  last  beast,  and — "Allah  wills" 
— made  off  with  his  prize. 

Probably  no  superstition  has  a  stronger,  more 
universal  hold  on  the  Mohammedan  than  his 

[18] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

belief  that  one  may  cast  upon  him  the  influence 
of  the  "evil  eye."  Let  a  stranger,  particularly 
one  not  a  Moslem,  look  intently  on  anything 
worn  or  carried  on  the  person  of  an  Arab,  and 
he  will  straightway,  to  nullify  the  spell,  wet  his 
fingers  and  pass  them  over  the  object  upon  which 
the  stranger's  gaze  is  cast.  Inquire  after  the 
health  of  his  wife,  or  seek  to  flatter  him,  and  he 
raises  a  protecting  hand  to  his  face.  Fetishes  in 
the  images  of  hands  are  seen  among  the  orna- 
ments worn  about  the  persons  of  the  women, 
symbolized  in  the  decorations  of  utensils,  and 
occasionally  on  the  exterior  of  their  mosques. 
Over  many  an  arched  portal  is  the  impression  of 
a  black  hand  print  to  protect  its  inmates.  A 
number  of  times  a  door  left  accidentally  ajar  has 
been  slammed  to  as  I  passed,  on  account  of  the 
influence  which  my  "evil  eye"  might  have  upon 
the  occupants. 

Flanking  Tripoli  on  the  east  is  the  ancient 
Castle  of  the  Bashaws.  Under  its  walls  and 
bordering  the  sea  lies  the  garden  of  the  Turkish 
Army  and  Navy  Club  [known  as  the  Cafe],  which 
in  the  cool  of  the  day  is  the  social  rendezvous  of 
the  foreign  element  of  Tripoli.  When  the  sap- 
phire-blue shadow  of  the  great  castle  wall  had 

[19] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

thrown  itself  across  the  garden  and  crept  its  way 
over  the  sandy  stretch  of  the  Tuesday  Market 
beyond,  and  the  distant  Arab  houses  sewed  a 
golden  thread  across  the  dusk  shadows  of  the 
coming  twilight,  together  with  the  little  coterie 
of  English  residents  and  other  friends,  the  end  of 
the  day  was  invariably  spent  about  one  of  its 
tables.  Here,  over  our  Turkish  coffee,  masticay 
and  lakoom,  the  latest  news  would  be  discussed; 
a  recently  arrived  caravan,  the  latest  edict  of 
the  Pasha,  anything  from  the  arrival  of  Turkish 
exiles  to  the  Thames  boat-race  or  London  and 
Paris  quotations  on  ivory  and  feathers. 

I  found  out  some  time  after  my  arrival  that  I 
was  the  first  American  to  visit  Tripoli  for  two 
years.  The  sudden  alighting  in  their  midst  of 
a  stranger  had  set  going  at  full  pressure  their 
speculative  machinery,  and  for  a  time  I  was 
regarded  as  a  spy. 

One  evening  at  the  Turkish  Club  we  turned 
our  attention  from  the  praying  figures  of  the 
Moslems  in  a  near-by  cemetery  to  an  incoming 
steamer.  Then  the  conversation  drifted,  like  the 
lazy  wreaths  of  the  cigarette  smoke,  to  the  ancient 
Castle  of  the  Bashaws,  which  flanks  the  city  on 
the  east.     Within  its  ramparts  is  a  little  village, 

[20] 


TRIPOLI  IN  BARBARY 

and  could  its  old  walls  speak,  they  could  tell 
tales  of  intrigue,  romance,  and  bloodshed  in- 
numerable. I  had  been  through  the  prisons  and 
barracks  for  which  it  is  now  used,  and  had  talked 
with  some  of  the  prisoners.  One  was  a  Turkish 
exile,  a  man  of  education,  who  for  political  rea- 
sons had  sacrificed  his  freedom  for  his  convic- 
tions, and  considered  himself  lucky  to  have 
escaped  being  sent  far  south  to  Murzuk  with  its 
sense-robbing  climate. 

*'Do  you  see  that  spot  in  the  wall,  close  to  the 
ground  and  under  that  corner  bastion  .^"  said  my 
friend  Riley,  pointing  to  where  a  small  hole  had 
apparently  been  bricked  up.  "Well,  one  after- 
noon, I  was  passing  here  from  the  Suk  [market] 
when  a  ragged,  unkempt  fellow  appeared  in  the 
caravan  road  there,  acting  most  strangely.  He 
seemed  afraid  to  walk  erect,  and,  though  in  broad 
daylight,  groped  his  way  about  in  a  most  uncanny 
manner.  A  crowd  collected.  Turkish  guards 
soon  appeared  and  conducted  him  back  to  the 
Castle  from  which  he  had  come.  Yes,  through 
that  stoned-up  hole.  You  see  the  poor  beggar 
had  been  in  there  for  years,  down  in  one  of  the 
dungeons  below  the  ground.  He  had  been  there 
so  long  that  no  one  remembered  who  he  was  or 

[21] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE   SAHARA 

for  what  he  had  been  imprisoned;  but  somehow 
he  managed  to  secure  a  hard  instrument  and  dig 
his  way  out.  Had  he  reached  the  outside  at  this 
time  of  day  or  at  night,  he  might  have  escaped. 
Why  didn't  he  ?  Coming  from  the  darkness,  he 
found  himself  blinded  by  the  strong  sunlight,  and 
the  heavy  iron  shackles  on  his  feet  gave  him 
away.  Unless  he  is  dead,  perhaps  the  poor 
wretch  is  there  now,  only  a  few  yards  from  us — 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall."  Riley  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  cigarette  and  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  Adria  steaming  in  with  the  weekly 
mail. 


[22] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

TOWN    SCENES   AND    INCIDENTS 

FROM  the  top  of  my  lokanda  I  could  look 
over  the  dazzling,  whitewashed,  color- 
tinted  city,  a  great  sea  of  flat  housetops  broken 
only  by  several  minarets,  an  occasional  palm- 
tree,  the  castle  battlements,  and  the  flag-staffs  of 
the  European  Consulates.  The  mosques,  the 
city  walls,  and  some  of  the  more  important  build- 
ings are  built  of  huge  blocks  of  stone,  but  on  the 
whole  it  is  a  city  of  sun-dried  bricks,  rafters  of 
palm-wood,  and  whitewash.  This  material  serves 
its  purpose  well  in  a  country  of  heat  and  little 
rain,  but  permitted  of  a  unique  catastrophe  in 
February,  1904. 

Some  miles  back  of  the  town  in  the  low  desert 
foot-hills,  owing  to  a  cloud-burst,  a  great  body 
of  water  was  accumulated  in  a  natural  reservoir. 
Suddenly  it  burst,  flooded  across  the  country 
without  warning,  and  on  a  bright  clear  day  swept 
through  the  oasis  and  town  of  Tripoli,  gullying 

[23] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

its  way  to  the  sea.  Sweeping  around  the  bases 
of  the  houses,  the  sun-dried  bricks  at  their 
foundations  disintegrated  like  melting  snow,  the 
walls  collapsed,  and  some  eighty  people  perished. 
For  almost  a  day  it  cut  off  traffic  along  the  main 
caravan  road  as  it  led  into  Tripoli.  Great 
crowds  gathered  along  its  banks  and  on  the  roofs 
of  the  neighboring  houses.  The  next  day 
muffled  figures  searched  amongst  the  debris  in 
the  gully  for  their  lost  ones  and  property. 

Often  under  the  blue-green  of  African  nights 
I  would  sit  in  my  window,  whose  broad  stone 
ledge  still  held  the  heat  of  the  departed  day,  and 
listen  in  undisturbed  reverie  to  the  night  sounds 
of  the  Arab  city,  sounds  among  which  the  rumble 
of.  traffic  was  conspicuously  absent,  sounds 
which  took  on  a  personal  element — the  soft 
scuff  of  feet;  the  prayer  calls  of  Muezzins;  far- 
off  cries,  voices  of  an  almost  forgotten  people. 
From  under  the  palms  far  out  beyond  the  town, 
the  hoarse  bark  of  a  wolf-hound  drifts  in,  as 
patrolling  the  mud  walls  of  his  master's  gardens 
he  warns  away  marauders.  Though  early  even- 
ing, the  Arbar-Arsat  is  almost  deserted.  A  low, 
sustained  whistle,  then  down  in  the  dark  shadow 
a    dusky    figure    moves    noiselessly    by.     Soon 

[24] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

another  whistle  from  the  direction  in  which  he 
has  gone,  and  I  know  a  second  night  watchman 
has  passed  him  along.  Thus  to  a  certain  extent 
does  Tripoli  protect  or  watch  her  inhabitants, 
who  for  good  or  ill  may  have  occasion  to  trace 
their  way  at  night  through  her  dangerous,  tor- 
tuous  streets. 

Drifting  over  the  housetops  come  wavering 
pulsations  of  sound.  Then  from  some  distant 
quarter  they  take  form,  and  the  wild  beat  of  the 
tom-toms,  strangely  suggestive  of  the  great  ele- 
mental nature,  heat,  and  passion  of  the  drowsy 
and  fanatical  East,  throbs  its  way  nearer  and 
nearer  through  the  maze  of  dark  and  deserted 
streets.  Now  the  long-sustained  or  rippling  res- 
onant notes  of  the  oboes  and  thrumming  gim- 
brehs  are  discernible.  "Lu-lu-lu-lu!"  ring  out 
the  shrill  voices  of  women;  clash!  go  the  steel 
cymbals,  and  a  wedding  procession  turns  into  the 
Arbar-Arsat. 

A  yelling  runner  on  ahead  passes  under  my 
window,  then  in  irregular  march  the  procession 
itself.  First,  bearers  of  lanterns  of  colored  glass 
which  throw  beautiful  prismatic  lights  on  the 
white-walled  houses  and  illumine  the  swarthy 
faces  of  the  musicians  who  follow  them;    then 

[25] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

more  lanterns,  diffusing  the  darkness,  glinting  in 
scintillating  reflections  from  the  men's  eyes,  and 
throwing  great  slashes  of  mellow  light  down  upon 
the  heads  and  shoulders  of  the  muffled  forms  of 
the  women.  In  their  midst,  seated  on  a  donkey, 
rides  the  bride,  hidden  from  view  under  a  palan- 
quin [canopy].  Again  follow  lanterns  illuminating 
the  dark  canopy,  etching  out  the  red  gold  threads 
of  the  heavy  embroidery  from  its  dark,  velvety 
background. 

Just  beyond  my  window  the  procession  halts, 
wails  a  song,  and  moves  on.  Then  the  wild 
rhapsody  of  a  desert  people  grows  fainter ;  again 
only  the  tom-toms  sound  out  in  their  barbaric 
prosody  and  float  away  over  the  town  and  the 
desert  sand.  A  scavenger  dog  sneaks  by  and  the 
city  sleeps. 

One  midnight  I  watched  the  moon  disk  pass 
behind  the  minaret  of  the  Djema-el-Daruj 
[Mosque  of  the  Steps]  at  the  corner  and  paint  the 
city  in  silver.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Arbar- 
Arsat,  far  down  the  street,  I  caught  sight  now 
and  again  of  a  thief,  as,  rope  in  hand  to  lower 
himself  into  the  courts,  he  worked  his  way  along 
the  roof  tops.  Quick  and  catlike  his  wiry  figure 
dropped  lightly  to  a  lower  level  here,  or  scaled  a 

[26] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

height  there,  until  he  reached  the  house  across 
the  street.  Sitting  motionless  I  watched  him 
with  interest.  Barefooted,  he  wore  only  a  pair 
of  cotton  trousers,  while  a  turban  was  twisted 
about  his  fez.  The  moonlight  played  over  the 
muscles  of  his  supple  body  and  glinted  a  silver 
crescent  from  his  crooked  Arab  knife.  It  was 
not  until  directly  opposite  that  he  saw  me.  For 
a  second  he  stood  motionless,  then  like  a  flash 
dropped  below  the  parapet  of  the  house  and 
disappeared. 

Many  an  evening  I  would  saunter  down  the 
Arbar-Arsat;  pause  long  enough  at  the  door  of 
the  Djema-el-Daruj  to  sense  the  interior  of  this 
beautiful  shrine,  lit  only  with  its  suspended 
cluster  of  myriad  little  lamps.  These  twinkled 
in  the  gray  darkness  like  the  falling  stars  of  a 
bursting  rocket  and  shed  their  delicate  glow  over 
the  prostrate  figures  of  the  devout  Moslems 
beneath  them.  On  straw  mattings  which  covered 
the  marble  floor,  they  turned  their  faces  toward 
the  kibleh  [sacred  niche]  and  Mecca.  I  rarely 
stopped,  however,  to  deliberately  peer  into  this 
sanctuary,  lest  I  give  offence.  The  next  corner 
brought  me  to  the  Street  of  the  Milk  Sellers' 
Market.     Knocking  at  a  big  green  door,  I  would 

[27] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

shortly  meet  with  a  cordial  reception  from  my 
friend   Riley. 

His  house,  originally  built  for  and  occupied  by 
the  favorite  wife  of  Yussef  Bashaw,  wa^  one  of 
the  best  examples  of  the  seraglio  of  a  high-class 
Arab.  A  broad  balcony  surrounding  the  court 
took  the  place  of  the  living-room,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  Arabs.  Here  amidst  a  bower  of 
tropical  plants,  carpeted  with  rare  rugs  and 
furnished  with  all  the  necessities  for  a  complete 
home  life  in  the  East,  most  of  the  family  life  is 
spent.  Off  the  balcony  were  the  private  living- 
rooms.  After  the  Arab  custom,  originally  no 
two  were  connected  and  all  save  one  received 
their  light  through  barred  windows  opening  upon 
the  balcony.  Several  of  these  rooms  had  been 
converted  into  one  spacious  drawing-room  and 
another  into  a  library. 

Both  Bashaw  and  Sultana  have  long  since 
gone.  Yussef's  bones  repose  in  a  mosque  of  his 
own  name,  while  under  an  arched  tomb  of  the 
Sultanas  at  Sciara-el-Sciut,  the  dust  which  was 
once  the  beautiful  Lilla  lies  beneath  the  wind- 
blown sands  near  the  sun-scorched  desert  trail 
which  leads  to  Misurata.  I  gazed  in  fascinating 
reverie  at  the  worn  depressions  in  the  floor  tiles 

[28] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

and  where  the  edges  of  the  balustrades  had  be- 
come softened  and  rounded. 

One  evening,  after  Salam,  the  black  Sudanese, 
had  brought  us  our  Turkish  coffee,  we  settled 
down  comfortably  on  the  long  wicker  seats. 
The  addax  horns  and  native  weapons  on  the 
walls  painted  long  diverging  slashes  of  black  in 
the  lamplight.  The  lamp  shed  its  rays  through 
the  balustrade  into  the  court,  and  the  gnarled 
old  tree  which  rose  from  its  centre  threw  fan- 
tastic genii  shadows  on  the  opposite  walls;  the 
soft  wind  rustled  in  its  canopy  of  leaves,  through 
which  an  occasional  star  scintillated  in  a  bit  of 
blue. 

"Riley,"  said  I,  "who  lives  in  the  big  house 
with  the  heavy  bolted  door,  near  my  lokanda.?" 

"The  one  with  the  Roman  column  for  a 
corner  post.^     Why  do  you  ask.^" 

"Well,  in  passing  I  often  look  up  at  the  lat- 
tice which  projects  from  the  window  above  its 
portal,  and  this  afternoon  when  the  sun  fell  full 
upon  it,  through  its  jalousied  wood- work  I  saw 
indistinctly  the  face  of  a  girl,  then  heard  a  gruff 
voice,  and  she  disappeared." 

"Strange!     Those  jalousies,  you  know,  screen 

the  only  window  in  the  house  that  looks  out  on 

[29] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  street.  That  window  is  in  the  gulphor — a 
room  strictly  private  to  the  master  of  the  house, 
none  of  his  immediate  family  ever  being  allowed 
to  enter  without  his  particular  permission. 
Come!"  said  Riley;  "I  will  show  you,"  and  he 
led  the  way  to  his  private  study,  which  had 
formerly  been  the  gulphor  of  Arab  masters. 
"Step  out  here,"  and  I  found  myself  in  a  little 
latticed  box  outside  the  window.  "This  hole  in 
the  floor  allows  one  to  see  who  may  be  knocking 
at  the  door  directly  beneath,  but  it  has  been 
known  to  be  used  by  Moorish  maidens  as  a 
means  of  communication  with  outsiders.  By  the 
way,  you  found  no  piece  of  cloth  or  paper  in  the 
street,  did  you  ?  Odd  stories  have  been  asso- 
ciated with  that  house.  It  is  rumored  that  a 
young  Circassian  girl,  mysteriously  brought  from 
across  the  Mediterranean,  is  confined  there  in 
the  seraglio  of  her  master." 

We  talked  late,  for  the  night  was  hot.  During 
the  day  the  silver  thread  of  the  mercury  had 
hovered  about  blood-heat,  and  now,  at  midnight, 
it  had  dropped  only  to  eighty  degrees;  but  this 
was  nothing  unusual  in  Tripoli.  Suddenly  the 
brindled  bulldog  started  from  his  dozing  at  his 
master's  feet  and  with  a  low  growl  sprang  upon 

[30] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

the  top  of  the  balustrade  which  he  patrolled, 
sniflfing  high  in  the  air. 

"A  thief  on  the  roof,"  remarked  Riley.  *'  One 
night,  not  long  before  you  came,  that  pup  woke 
me  out  of  a  sound  sleep.  There  was  the  devil 
of  a  rumpus  in  the  street  outside  my  door. 
Backed  up  against  it,  doing  the  best  he  could 
with  his  heavy  krasrullah  [knobbed  stick],  which 
all  Tripolitans  carry  at  night,  was  Hadji  Ali,  a 
neighbor,  putting  up  a  game  fight  with  three  big 
Blacks  with  knives.  Opening  the  door,  I  pulled 
him  in;  the  Blacks  started  to  follow.  From 
behind  my  revolver  I  told  them  that  any  man 
who  sought  my  protection  against  murderers 
would  have  it.  Ordering  them  away,  I  closed 
the  door  and  made  Hadji  comfortable  for  the 
night." 

"What  had  he  done  to  them.?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  they  were  hired  by  his  enemy, 
another  neighbor.  They  hid  in  that  archway  up 
the  street  and  sprang  out  at  him  as  he  passed." 
As  I  went  by  the  archway  on  my  return  that 
night  I  hugged  the  farther  wall  and  carried  my 
revolver  in  my  hand." 

It  is  little  wonder  that  here  in  the  Bled-el- 
Ateusch — The    Country    of   Thirst — where   the 

[31] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

relentless  sun  enforces  rest  and  the  great  soli- 
tudes seem  to  brood  a  sadness  over  things, 
there  has  been  engendered  in  all  the  people 
a  life  of  contemplation  and  fatalism  little  known 
and  still  less  understood  by  thicker-blooded 
men  whose  lives  are  spent  in  struggle  and  ac- 
tivity against  the  adverse  elements  of  northern 
climes. 

Tripoli  is  a  land  of  contrasts — rains  which 
turn  the  dry  wadis  [river  beds]  into  raging  tor- 
rents and  cause  the  country  to  blossom  over 
night,  then  month  after  month  without  a  shower 
over  the  parched  land ;  suffocating  days  and  cool 
nights;  full  harvests  one  year,  famine  the  next; 
without  a  breath  of  air,  heat-saturated,  yellow 
sand  wastes  bank  against  a  sky  of  violet  blue; 
then  the  terrific  blast  of  the  gibli,  the  south-east 
wind-storm,  lifts  the  fine  powdered  desert  sand  in 
great  whoofs  of  blinding  orange,  burying  cara- 
vans and  forcing  the  dwellers  in  towns  to  close 
their  houses  tightly. 

Arab  character  in  a  marked  degree  seems  to 
be  the  child  of  its  environment  and  has  inherited 
many  of  the  characteristics  of  the  great  solitudes 
among  which  it  has  dwelt  for  thousands  of  years. 
On  the  one  hand  the  Arab  is  hospitable  and  open- 

[32] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

handed ;  on  the  other  treacherous,  grasping,  and 
cruel ;  seemingly  mild  and  lazy,  yet  he  is  capable 
of  performing  extraordinary  feats  of  labor.  His 
religion  and  literature  are  full  of  poetry,  but 
many  of  their  tenets  are  lacking  in  his  daily 
life.  In  his  architecture  and  design  the  highest 
artistic  instinct  is  shown,  yet  the  representation 
of  any  living  thing  is  forbidden.  Stoical  and 
dignified,  yet  he  is  capable  of  being  roused  by  any 
wandering  marabout  to  an  ungovernable  state  of 
fanaticism;  now  you  know  him,  again  he  is  as 
mysterious  and  changeable  as  the  shifting  sand 
about  him;  by  nature  he  is  a  nomad,  a  dweller 
in  tents  rather  than  in  towns.  "Allah  has  be- 
stowed four  peculiar  things  upon  us,"  say  the 
Arabs:  "our  turbans  shall  be  to  us  instead  of 
diadems,  our  tents  instead  of  walls  and  houses, 
our  swords  as  intrenchments,  and  our  poems 
instead  of  written  laws." 

By  the  creed  of  Islam  all  lines  are  drawn,  all 
distinctions  made.  Upon  the  traditions  of  Mo- 
hammed and  the  interpretations  of  the  Koran 
the  Arab  orders  his  manner  of  life  in  polity,  eth- 
ics, and  science,  and  "Allah  hath  said  it,"  is  the 
fatalistic  standard  of  his  daily  life.  The  teach- 
ings of  the  Koran  and  centuries  of  warfare  in 

[33] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

which  women  were  but  part  of  the  victor's  loot 
have  in  no  small  degree  helped  to  develop  that 
exclusiveness  which  is  a  cardinal  principle  in  the 
Moslem  life,  for  there  is  no  social  intercourse 
among  Mohammedans  in  the  Occidental  sense  of 
the  word. 

The  plain-walled  house  of  the  Tripolitan  Arab, 
with  its  heavily  bolted  ,door  and  jalousied  win- 
dow, is  built  with  due  consideration  to  guarding 
well  the  secrets  and  private  life  of  the  occupants, 
and  whether  large  or  small,  in  town  or  country, 
all  are  of  the  same  plan. 

The  inner  court  is  the  quarters  of  the  mistress 
of  the  harem.  In  many  of  these  are  ancient 
marble  columns,  while  rare  old  China  tiles  adorn 
the  walls.  Here  the  mistress  entertains  com- 
panies of  women;  here  they  celebrate  in  their 
peculiar  fashion  the  birth  of  a  child  or  wail  the 
burial-song  over  the  body  of  the  dead. 

Occasionally  a  Moorish  woman  is  permitted 
to  visit  the  mosques  at  night,  accompanied  by  a 
servant.  Sometimes  she  calls  on  a  woman  friend 
or  with  an  attendant  visits  the  bazaars.  At  these 
times  she  wears  a  baracan  of  fine  texture,  and  a 
dark  blue  veil  bound  around  her  forehead  covers 
her  face.     According  to  the  thickness  of  this 

[34] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

veil,  her  features  may  be  more  or  less  distin- 
guishable. I  have  noticed  that  oftentimes  the 
more  beautiful  a  woman,  the  thinner  the  veil. 
Tripolitan  women  of  the  middle  class  have  a 
custom  of  going  about  without  veils,  but  draw 
the  baracan  over  the  face  instead,  leaving  a  small 
aperture  through  which  they  peek  with  one  eye. 
Women  of  the  lower  class — the  countrywomen 
and  Bedawi — frequently  go  with  faces  uncov- 
ered. 

The  country  Arab  converts  all  his  scant  earn- 
ings into  silver  ornaments,  and  these  are  depos- 
ited on  the  persons  of  his  wives — a  veritable 
burden  of  riches,  for  they  are  constantly  worn.  I 
have  run  across  women  hauling  water  under  the 
cattle  yoke  of  the  desert  walls,  literally  loaded 
down  with  pounds  of  silver,  while  the  husband 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  well-curb  and  directed  the 
irrigation  of  his  fields. 

This  silver  forms  an  important  function  as  a 
barometer  of  the  country's  prosperity,  to  read 
which  one  has  but  to  go  to  the  little  booths  of  the 
silversmiths  in  the  trellis-covered  Suk-el-Turc 
and  note  whether  the  country  people  are  sellers  or 
buyers.  In  1900,  a  year  of  poor  crops,  $72,500 
worth  of  this  old  silver,  so  dear  to  the  womankind 

[35] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

of  the  peasantry,  was  broken  up  and  exported, 
chiefly  to  France. 

The  Turkish  Imperial  taxation  is  under  the 
head  of  verghi  [poll  and  property  tax]  and  the 
tithe  on  agricultural  produce.  During  the  ten 
years  preceding  my  sojourn  in  Tripoli,  the  total 
averaged  $540,000  annually. 

The  verghi  payable  by  the  vilayet  was  fixed  at 
a  sum  equivalent  to  $408,000.  Only  in  two 
years  was  this  obtained,  in  1901  and  surpassed 
in  1902.  Both  were  years  of  bad  harvests,  show- 
ing the  tremendous  pressure  which  must  have 
been  brought  to  bear  on  the  peasants  by  the 
authorities.  During  the  past  thirty  years  the 
trade  of  Tripoli  has  been  stationary,  with  an 
average  annual  value  of  $3,850,000 — exports 
balancing  imports  with  remarkable  regularity. 

Though  the  Tripolitan  is  quick  to  learn  he  has 
little  creative  genius,  and  his  constitutional  apa- 
thy is  a  formidable  barrier  against  departure 
from  his  primitive  customs  and  traditions.  In  the 
deserts  certain  tribes  live  by  means  of  reprisals 
and  by  extorting  heavy  tolls  from  caravans.  In 
the  vicinity  of  the  populated  districts  there  are  ma- 
rauding bands  of  thieves,  and  in  the  towns  and 
suks  [markets]  are  scheming  ne'er-do-wells.     But 

[36] 


TOWN  SCENES  AND  INCIDENTS 

from  my  observation,  most  of  the  people  hard- 
earned  their  bread  at  honest  labor:  the  artisan 
in  the  town,  the  farmer  in  the  country,  the  trader 
and  caravan  man  on  the  trails. 


[37] 


CHAPTER  THREE 

OUTSIDE   THE    WALLS 

WHILE  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli  is  a  purely 
agricultural  province,  a  very  small  area 
of  these  barren,  inhospitable  wastes  is  cultivated 
or  cultivable  under  present  conditions,  and  one 
need  not  look  far  for  the  primary  cause — the 
yoke  of  Turkish  taxation.  '*Give  me  until  to- 
morrow and  I  will  pay  my  verghi,"  I  once  heard 
an  Arab  farmer  say  to  a  Turkish  tax  collector. 

"Then  give  me  your  camel." 

'*She  and  her  foal  were  sold  at  Ramadan 
[Annual    Fast],"    was    the    reply. 

"Ha!  thou  kafir  [unbeliever],  thy  baracan  will 
fetch  little  enough,"  and  without  a  murmur  the 
Arab  was  stripped  of  the  garment. 

The  district  which  lies  between  the  crumbling 
eastern  extremity  of  the  Atlas  known  as  the 
Tripoli  Hills  and  the  sea  forms  almost  the  entire 
present  productive  soil  of  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli, 
being  two-fifths  of  its  410,000  square  miles.     In 

[38] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

this  narrow  strip,  Arabs,  Berbers,  and  Bedawi 
cultivate  cereals,  vegetables,  and  fruit  trees.  Here 
one  is  transported  into  an  Old  Testament  land, 
to  a  people  who  still  cling  with  childish  tenacity 
to  the  picturesque  and  crude  customs  of  ages  past. 
There  amid  a  flock  of  sheep  is  Joseph;  Rebecca 
is  filling  an  earthen  water-jar  at  a  desert  well,  or 
perhaps  a  young  Bedaween  sower  after  the  first 
autumnal  rains  have  soaked  the  ground,  goes 
forth  to  sow.  With  a  rhythmic  swing  of  the  arm 
he  broadcasts  seed.  An  elder  member  of  the 
family,  perhaps  the  old  sheik  himself,  follows 
with  a  crude  iron-tipped  plough  drawn  by  a 
camel,  cow,  or  dilapidated  ass.  About  four  in- 
ches of  soil  are  scratched  up,  but  enough  to  turn 
under  the  seed,  and  the  rest  is  left  to  nature. 
Aiter  the  grain  is  garnered  it  is  flailed  or  tramped 
out  under  hoof  on  some  hard-packed  spot,  and 
a  windy  day  awaited,  when  it  is  thrown  in  the 
air,  and  wheat  and  chaff  are  thus  separated. 

The  soil,  however,  is  so  fertile,  that  with 
abundant  rains  the  harvests  are  surprising  in 
their  yield.  The  seed  sown  is  occasionally 
wheat,  guinea  corn,  or  millet,  but  generally  bar- 
ley, the  staple  food  of  the  Arab. 

Through  lack  of  rain  the  Tripolitan  can  count 
[39] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

on  only  four  good  harvests  out  of  ten.  This  also 
affects  the  wool  production,  and  in  bad  years  the 
Arab,  fearing  starvation,  sells  his  flocks  and  his 
seed  for  anything  he  can  get.  Through  lack  of 
initiative  and  encouragement  added  to  the  bur- 
den of  heavy  taxation,  fully  one-half  of  the  culti- 
vable soil  lies  fallow,  and  the  Arab  cattle-raiser 
or  peasant  sows  only  sufficient  seed  for  his  sup- 
port through  the  coming  year.  Any  surplus 
which  may  be  acquired,  however,  generally  finds 
its  way  into  the  hand  of  the  usurer  and  the  tax 
gatherer,  so  that  the  Arab  stands  to  lose  by  ex- 
tended cultivation. 

An  oasis  originally  meant  a  habitation  which 
presupposed  the  existence  of  water,  but  has  come 
to  mean  any  cultivated  spot.  It  is  usually  de- 
veloped where  springs  or  surface  water  are  to  be 
found;  otherwise  wells  are  sunk  and  the  land 
irrigated  by  water  drawn  from  them  in  huge 
goat-skin  buckets. 

Selecting  some  satisfactory  spot,  the  Arab  digs 
his  well,  sets  out  his  palms  and  orange-trees,  and 
shortly  under  their  shadows  raises  fruits  and 
vegetables.  In  the  cool  of  the  day  he  hauls 
water  to  the  well-top  in  the  goat-skin  buckets,  to 
be  automatically  spilled  into  an  adjoining  cistern. 

[40] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

This  filled,  a  gateway  is  opened  through  which 
the  sparkling  liquid  rushes,  finally  trickling 
away  down  the  little  ground  channels  by  which 
the  garden  is  irrigated.  Camel,  cow,  donkey,  or 
wife  may  be  the  motor  power  used  to  bring  the 
water  to  the  top  of  the  well.  This  is  achieved  by 
hauling  the  well  rope  down  the  inclined  plane  of 
a  pit.  There  was  one  well  I  used  to  visit  in  the 
oasis  of  Tripoli  that  was  tended  by  an  old  blind 
man.  Down  into  the  pit  he  would  go  with  his 
cow,  turn  her  about,  then  up  again.  When 
something  went  wrong  with  the  tackle  he  would 
lean  dangerously  out  from  the  slimy  well-curb 
or  crawl  along  the  rope  beam  over  the  opening 
to  adjust  the  rope — no  easy  feat  even  for  a  man 
who  could  see. 

From  the  desert  at  the  back  of  the  town  one 
looks  across  a  sea  of  sand  surrounding  the  heavy 
battlements.  The  coast  and  part  of  the  city 
walls  are  screened  by  a  narrow  five  mile  oasis  of 
date-palms  a  mile  wide,  which  raise  their  chiselled 
shafts  high  above  the  houses  and  mingle  their 
gracefully  feathered  tops  with  the  needle  spires 
of  the  minarets.  It  is  not  its  beauty  alone,  how- 
ever, which  makes  the  date-palm  queen  among 

trees:  its  shadow  is  protection  from  the  heat;  its 

[41] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

leaves  are  used  for  mats  and  thatching;  its  wood 
for  building  and  fuel;  its  fibre  for  ropes  and 
baskets;  its  juice  for  drinking,  and  its  fruit  for 
food;  even  its  stones,  those  which  are  not  ex- 
ported to  Italy  to  adulterate  coffee,  are  made  into 
a  paste  fodder  for  animals.  No  less  than  two 
millions  of  these  regal  beauties  are  grown  by  the 
Arabs  in  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli,  and  great  quanti- 
ties of  the  fruit  finds  its  way  to  the  arid  plateau 
lands  of  the  Fezzan,  whose  inhabitants  make  it 
their  principal  diet. 

Outside  the  town  walls,  or  at  established  spots 
within  the  oasis,  suks  are  held  on  certain  days  of 
the  week.  To  these,  over  the  sandy  highways 
through  the  palm  groves,  passes  the  native 
traffic — small  caravans  of  donkeys  and  camels 
loaded  with  the  products  of  agriculturists,  and 
shepherds  with  their  flocks  of  sheep,  which  patter 
along  in  a  cloud  of  sand  dust. 

I  once  saw  a  little  donkey  on  the  way  to  market 
supporting  a  corpulent  Arab,  a  bag  of  corn,  and 
a  live  sheep.  Now  and  again  the  little  burden 
bearer  showed  its  fatigue  and  disgust  by  lying 
down  in  the  road.  Nothing  of  that  nature, 
though,  could  disturb  the  imperturbable  son  of 
Allah,  who  held  in  place  the  corn  and  the  sheep 

[42] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

and  stood  astride  the  ass,  forcing  it  to  lift  him  as 
it  regained  its  feet. 

The  horse  is  used  only  for  riding.  Some  fine 
breeds  are  found  among  certain  tribes  of  the 
Tuaregs  and  others  in  the  extreme  south,  or  are 
owned  by  the  wealthy  Arabs  of  Barbary.  Those 
seen  about  the  towns  and  oases  are  ordinary 
specimens  and  are  abominably  treated.  The 
Arab  generally  uses  a  cruel  bit,  goads  his  horse 
unmercifully  with  the  sharp  corners  of  his  broad, 
scoop-like  stirrups  of  steel,  and  has  a  bad  habit 
of  drawing  it  up  sharply  out  of  a  full  run.  He 
is  greatly  aided  in  this  feat  by  the  character  of  the 
Arab  saddle,  which  is  undoubtedly  the  model 
from  which  our  Western  stock  saddle  originated. 
The  horse-riding  Tuaregs  have  a  stirrup  which 
in  size  is  the  other  extreme  of  that  used  by  the 
Arabs,  it  being  just  large  enough  to  admit  the 
big  toe.  Those  Tuaregs  who  infest  the  northern 
deserts  and  the  Asgar  and  Kelowis  Tuaregs  who 
control  the  Tripoli-Sudan  trade  routes,  use  the 
riding  camel. 

The  Suk-el-Thalat  [Tuesday  Market]  is  held 

just  without  the  walls  of  Tripoli  on  a  broad 

stretch  of  sand  bordering  the  sea,  and  the  Friday 

Market  farther  out  in  the  oasis. 

[43] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

One  morning  before  dawn  I  passed  through 
the  Castle  Gate  to  the  Suk-el-Thalat.  Many 
others,  mostly  merchants  from  the  town,  were 
moving  in  the  same  direction.  There  was 
Hamet's  one-eyed  neighbor.  Like  many  others, 
he  carried  a  little  portable  shack,  under  which  to 
spread  his  wares.  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
high  wall  of  a  square  enclosure.  In  the  early 
light  the  gray  and  white  baracans  of  the  people 
merged  into  the  tone  of  the  sand,  and  I  could 
sense  the  great  noiseless  mass  of  humanity 
moving  below  me  only  by  the  dark  spots  of  faces, 
arms,  and  legs.  Then  the  sunlight  flooded  a 
scene  as  truly  barbaric  and  pastoral  as  any  in  the 
days  of  Abraham. 

A  palette  of  living,  moving  color,  this  red- 
fezzed,  baracaned  humanity  wormed  its  way 
between  piles  of  multicolored  products  of  the 
oasis — scintillating  brass,  copper,  and  silver  uten- 
sils; ornaments,  brilliant  cloths,  and  leather  trap- 
pings from  the  antipodes  of  Tripoli  trade — Kano 
and  Manchester.  Most  of  the  populace  were 
merchants  from  the  town,  others  tillers  of  the 
soil  from  the  oases  and  plateau  lands,  half-naked 
Blacks  from  the  neighboring  suburb  of  Sciara-el- 

Sciut,  caravan  men  and  camel  raisers  from  the 

[44] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

tribes  of  Zintan,  Orfella,  and  the  Welcd-Bu-Sef. 
Darkly  clothed  Jews  were  much  in  evidence,  also 
wild  desert  men  from  the  far  south  and  nomadic 
traders  from  anywhere.  Here  the  high,  round  fez, 
modern  rifle,  patched  brown  suit,  and  heavy  shoes 
bespoke  the  Ottoman  soldier,  and  the  occasional 
glare  of  a  pipe-clayed  sun  helmet,  a  European. 

In  the  wall's  shadow  just  below  my  perch 
squatted  a  vender  of  knives.  For  culinary  use  ? 
Not  by  Mohammed's  beard !  A  knife  is  a  thing 
to  slay  with ;  none  but  infidels,  Jews,  and  Chris- 
tians at  repast  would  portion  food  with  such 
an  instrument.  Prospective  customers  crowded 
about  him;  some  drew  the  crooked  blades  from 
their  brass-mounted  sheaths  and  bargained  at 
their  leisure.  Instinctively  they  preferred  to  bar- 
ter, but  this  method  of  trade  has  been  greatly 
superseded  by  the  use  of  Turkish  currency, 
although  napoleons  and  sovereigns  pass  in  the 
coast  towns  as  readily  as  paras  and  medjidies. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  of  a  leading 
British  resident  of  Tripoli  will  give  an  insight 
into  the  character  and  business  methods  of  the 
Tripoli  town  Arab: 

The  good  old  Arab  is  fast  dying  out,  only  a  few  remaining  of 
the  old  school.     When  I  came  here  seventeen  years  ago  [and  not 

[45] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

made  my  fortune  yet]  I  sold  hundreds  of  pounds  to  the  Arabs,  en- 
tering the  goods  to  their  debit  in  my  books,  calculating  the  amount 
with  them,  and  they  always  paid  up  without  any  bother.  When  a 
man  was  ill  he  would  send  word  and  when  well  again  would  come 
round  and  bring  the  money.  The  new  and  present  generation 
cannot  be  trusted.  .  .  .  They  are  learning  tricks  from  the  Jews 
and  find  they  have  to  do  them  to  be  able  to  compete.  It  is  quite 
a  common  thing  for  Arabs  here  to  fail  and  offer  20  per  cent,  to 
25  per  cent. ;  before  you  never  heard  of  an  Arab  smashing  .  .  . 
he  has  learned  all  the  vices  of  the  European  .  .  .  and  has  slipped 
the  good  points  of  the  Arab. 

The  rural  Arabs  are  thoroughly  ignorant,  superstitious,  and 
suspicious  when  they  come  into  town,  knowing  that  the  Jews, 
most  of  the  Europeans,  and  the  town  Arabs  are  all  on  the  lookout 
to  take  him  in.  He  is  hard-working  and  tills  in  his  garden  or  field 
with  his  family,  coming  into  town  on  market  day  to  sell  his  prod- 
uce and  buy  his  little  supplies. 

The  world  over  the  paysan  is  the  natural  prey 
of  the  sophisticated  and  unscrupulous  urbanite. 
But  the  methods  by  which  these  leeches  extract 
their  ill-gotten  pelf  is  as  varied  as  the  conditions 
under  which  it  must  be  obtained. 

Watch  that  Arab  yonder;  the  one  who  has  just 
turned  in  by  the  camel  market  with  his  flock  of 
sheep.  He  soon  stops  and  huddles  them  all  in  a 
bunch  about  him.  It  is  early  yet  and  he  refuses 
the  low  offers  proffered  by  several  passers-by. 

*'  B'is  salamah !  On  thy  peace,  uncle  pilgrim," 
and  a  keen-visaged  Moor  greets  him  with  the 
Temenah. 

[46] 


O     O 

B  i 

I"  S 

o 


Zh    =* 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

"  Gedash !  [how  much]  has  been  offered  thee  for 
thy  flock?" 

"Four  medjidies  [$3.52]  a  sheep." 

"What  dog  of  an  unbeliever  has  offered  the 
price  of  his  own  skin  to  one  of  the  Faithful  ? 
Thy  sheep  are  fat  and  of  good  kind  and  by  Allah 
are  worth  double,  but  hold,  givest  me  one  per 
cent,  if  I  sell  for  twice  that  which  is  offered  thee  ? 
Well  said !  Come  then  to  yonder  f onduk  at  the 
edge  of  the  Suk  and  we  will  there  place  thy  flock 
for  safety."  The  Moor  draws  from  his  leathern 
money  bag  a  few  paras  and  pays  for  the  stabling, 
the  fonduk  keeper  naturally  supposing  him  to  be 
the  owner. 

"Now,"  said  the  leech,  "let  us  take  one  sheep 
and  go  back  to  the  Suk  with  it."  Then  through 
the  crowd  they  pick  their  way,  the  leech  carrying 
the  sheep  across  his  shoulder. 

"Hold,  brother,  may  Allah  lengthen  thy  age. 
Stay  thou  hei:e  with  this  sheep,  while  I  seek  a 
customer." 

Tired  of  waiting,  and  with  growing  suspicion 
the  man  from  the  wadan  [country]  at  last  hurries 
back  to  the  fonduk,  only  to  find  that  the  leech 
had  long  since  taken  the  flock  and  disappeared. 

The  wall  upon  which  I  had  been  seated  en- 
[47] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

closed  a  rectangular  yard  of  several  acres  in 
which  bulky  loads  of  the  wild  esparto  grass,  or 
halja,  as  the  Arabs  call  it,  were  being  removed 
from  the  camels,  eventually  to  be  shipped  to 
England  for  the  manufacture  of  paper. 

Patches  of  blood  stained  the  sand  outside 
some  neighboring  shacks.  They  are  but  the  sign 
of  the  Arab  barber,  who,  in  addition  to  his  ton- 
sorial  accomplishments,  like  the  barbers  of  old, 
performs  simple  surgical  operations,  and  our 
striped  barber-pole  is  but  an  ancient  symbol 
representing  a  twisted  bandage. 

Passing  through  the  produce  quarter,  I  picked 
my  way  through  heaps  of  grain,  piles  of  melons, 
tomatoes,  and  other  stuffs  which  made  gorgeous 
spottings  of  color  as  they  lay  in  the  brilliant  sun- 
shine, or  under  the  violet  shadows  of  the  shacks 
which  were  shifted  from  time  to  time  as  the  sun 
wore  around.  Under  a  tattered  piece  of  old 
burlap  two  Sudanese  roasted  fodder  corn;  men 
scuffed  noiselessly  by  over  the  hot  sand,  pausing 
here  and  there  to  ask,  *'Gedash?"  "How 
much.?"  Often  they  squatted  down  in  front  of 
the  goods  and  sometimes  spent  an  hour  or  more 
bargaining. 

I  soon  came  to  the  Arab  butcher  shops.  Sus- 
[48] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

pended  from  heavy  poles  the  meat  hung  dressed 
and  ready  for  sale,  and  one  cannot  help  being  im- 
pressed with  the  very  evident  fact  that  practically 
no  portion  of  the  animal  is  considered  unsalable. 
The  nature  of  the  Oriental  climate  has  rendered 
certain  kinds  of  food  detrimental  to  health,  and 
this  with  the  Arab,  as  with  the  Jews,  has  led  to 
a  division  of  animals  into  clean  and  unclean. 
Those  for  the  diet  of  the  Faithful  must  be  killed 
in  a  prescribed  way.  According  to  the  Turkish 
law  of  the  country,  it  must  be  killed  in  the  early 
morning,  and  by  reason  of  the  extreme  heat  must 
be  sold  by  the  night  of  the  same  day. 

Within  an  open  spot  a  wild,  unkempt  fellow 
holds  forth  to  a  circle  of  sober-visaged  hearers. 
His  long  hair  and  fantastic  garb  at  once  stamp 
him  as  a  marabout,  or  Mohammedan  wandering 
monk.  His  kind  are  conspicuous  characters 
among  the  people  upon  whom  they  live  as,  gener- 
ally bareheaded,  staff  in  hand,  they  drift  along 
the  desert  trails  through  the  oases  and  towns. 
Most  of  these  half-demented  caricatures  of 
humanity  dress  in  filthy  rags  and  claim  lineal 
descent  from  Mohammed.  Attributed  as  they 
are  with  supernatural  powers,  it  is  little  wonder 
that   they   are   venerated   by   the   superstitious 

[49] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Moslems.  At  Ramadan  they  are  very  much  in 
evidence,  and  have  been  indirectly  responsible 
for  holy  wars  and  the  direct  cause  of  many  up- 
risings and  revolutions. 

The  arrival  of  a  large  caravan  from  the  Sudan 
is  a  great  event,  and  as  it  reaches  Tripoli  groups 
of  women  shrill  their  cry  of  welcome.  Many 
small  caravans  may  be  seen  in  the  Suk  when 
market  is  held. 

Frequently  toward  the  end  of  the  market  day 
I  would  drop  into  one  of  the  numerous  little 
coffee-houses  which  border  the  easterly  end  of 
the  Suk.  Low  benches  lined  its  sides,  and  from 
a  dark  corner  on  one  of  these,  I  would  watch  my 
Arab  neighbors  smoke  thoughtfully  over  their 
slender  thimble  pipes  of  kief  and  hashish. 

Between  me  and  an  Arab  opposite  the  hazy 
smoke  wreaths  curled  and  lost  themselves  on 
the  heat-laden  air.  As  the  hashish  lulled  his 
feverish  brain  to  sleep  in  the  Fields  of  the 
Blessed,  perhaps  through  its  fumes  he  saw 
miraged  the  events  of  a  time  when  his  sires 
unfurled  their  banners  before  Poitiers,  flaunting 
them  for  centuries  in  the  very  eyes  of  Europe 
from  the  walls  of  Toledo  and  Granada,  and 
Basquan  valleys  echoed  the  Mezzin's  call. 

[50] 


OUTSIDE  THE  WALLS 

Through  the  smoke  mist  I  saw  but  a  repre- 
sentative of  a  poor  tax-ridden  people.  I  saw  the 
great  caravan  trade  through  which  they  acquire 
their  main  exports,  ivory,  feathers,  and  Sudan 
skins,  now  almost  gone,  and  her  principal  export, 
esparto  grass,  further  back  in  the  jebel  [moun- 
tains] and  growing  more  sparsely  each  successive 
year.  Leaving  the  coffee-house  I  crossed  the 
deserted  Suk,  just  as  the  great  red  lantern  of  the 
sun  lowered  from  sight  and  painted  the  spaces 
between  the  date-palms  with  bold  slashes  of  red. 


[51] 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

SALAM,   A   HAUSA   SLAVE 

/iMONG  the  many  nomads  who  camp  for  a 
•^  ^  time  in  the  oasis  of  Tripoli  or  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  are  occasional  tribes  of 
Blacks,  who  have  wandered  across  the  Great 
Desert.  These  are  very  clannish,  and  do  not 
mix  much  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  towns,  not 
even  with  those  of  their  own  color.  Perhaps  the 
most  interesting  of  these  Sudanese  are  the 
Hausas,  to  which  people  Salam  *  belonged. 
Salam,  like  many  others  of  that  splendid  race 
who  inhabit  the  Negro  states  of  the  far  Sudan, 
had  once  taken  his  slim  chances  of  escape  across 
the  desert  wastes,  arriving  at  last  in  Tripoli, 
where,  as  in  numerous  other  North  African 
towns  under  Turkish  or  French  control,  a  slave 
may  obtain  his  freedom  by  becoming  a  Turkish 
or  French  subject. 

During  my  sojourn  in  Tripoli,  Salam  at  times 

'  Salam  has  been  previously  mentioned  as  the  servant  of  an 
English  resident  in  Tripoli. 

[52] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

was  placed  at  my  service  by  his  master.  The 
picture  of  this  Hausa,  when  he  first  smiled  in  an 
appearance  at  my  lokanda,  is  still  vivid  in  my 
memory. 

It  was  one  hot  August  night  an  hour  after  the 
evening  prayer  had  wavered  from  the  minarets 
across  the  housetops  of  Tripoli.  I  was  sitting 
alone;  my  doors  opened  out  on  the  broad  bal- 
cony which  surrounded  the  inner  court.  The 
night  wind  rustled  softly  through  the  upper 
branches  of  an  olive-tree;  a  booma  bird  croaked 
hoarsely  on  its  nest;  the  candle  flickered.  I 
must  admit  I  was  inwardly  startled  as  I  looked 
up  from  my  writing  at  a  white  burnoosed  figure, 
which  had  suddenly  emerged  from  the  darkness 
and  now  stood  beside  me.  It  was  Salam.  I 
remember  how  black  his  hand  looked  in  contrast 
with  the  white  note  from  his  master  which  he 
delivered  to  me. 

His  short,  well-built  figure  was  wrapped  in  six 
yards  of  baracan.  From  this  bundle  beneath  the 
red  fez,  his  face  like  polished  ebony  mirrored  the 
candle  flame  in  brilliant  high  lights,  and  below  a 
heavy  beak-like  nose,  his  white  teeth  glistened 
and  his  deep-cut  tribal  scars  criss-crossed  in 
blacker  shadows  his  cheeks  and  temples.     He 

[53] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

received  my  answer :  again  the  light  flickered  and 
Salam  disappeared  as  quietly  as  he  came. 

Far  away  to  the  south,  six  to  eleven  months  as 
the  camel  journeys,  south  where  the  caravans 
end  their  long  voyages  and  the  Great  Desert 
meets  the  forests,  is  the  land  of  the  Hausas,  that 
great  organized  Black  Empire.  There,  in  the 
town  of  Meradi  Katsena,  Salam  was  born.  His 
town  was  like  thousands  of  others  which  lie 
scattered  over  the  width  and  breadth  of  the 
Central  Sudan,  their  mud  walls  and  thatched 
roofs  baking  under  the  tropical  sun  of  Hausa- 
land. 

Though  short  in  stature,  the  Hausas,  figura- 
tively speaking,  are  mentally  head  and  shoulders 
above  any  of  the  numerous  Black  tribes  of 
Africa.  They  have  a  written  language  resem- 
bling Arabic  and  the  traveller  through  the  Sudan 
who  speaks  Hausa  can  be  understood  almost 
everywhere. 

Despite  the  fact  that  the  Hausas  are  a  com- 
merce-loving people,  slavery  from  time  immemo- 
rial has  been  a  national  curse.  For  centuries  the 
noiseless  tread  of  laden  slaves  has  worn  deep- 
rutted  paths  below  the  forest  level,  packing  them 
hard  as  adamant  and  weaving  an  intricate  sys- 

[54] 


Salam,  the  Hausa 

Equipped  with  a  spear  and  a  .shield  of  rhinoceros  hide 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

tern  of  narrow  highways  through  the  jungles  of 
Hausaland.  Incomprehensible  as  it  may  seem, 
it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  only  a  few  years  ago 
at  least  one  out  of  every  three  hundred  persons  in 
the  world  was  a  Hausa-speaking  slave.* 

Notwithstanding  horrible  atrocities  committed 
by  slave-holders,  slaves  have  always  had  certain 
rights  of  their  own.  Sometimes  their  condition 
is  better  than  before  captivity,  and  it  is  not  unusual 
for  head  slaves  to  be  slave-owners  themselves  and 
to  be  placed  in  positions  of  high  trust.  One 
noted  instance  is  that  of  Rabbah,  an  ex-slave  of 
Zubehr  Pasha,  who  by  direction  of  the  Mahdi 
became  governor  of  the  great  eastern  Hausa 
state  of  Darfur. 

The  slave  traflSc,  based  as  it  is  on  a  tribute- 
paying  system,  has  had  a  most  demoralizing 
effect,  and  until  the  recent  extension  of  the 
British  sphere  of  influence  permanent  security  of 
life  and  property  was  unknown.  Slaves  sent  out 
with  the  garflas  [caravans]  often  travel  as  far 
north  as  Tripoli  and  other  towns  in  Barbary 
where  freedom  could  be  had  for  the  asking,  but 

'Charles  H.  Robinson,  in  "Hausaland,"  says:  " It  is  generally 
admitted  that  the  Hausa-speaking  population  number  at  least 
fifteen  millions,  i.  e.,  roughly  speaking,  one  per  cent,  of  the  world's 
population,  .  .  .  and  at  the  very  least  one-third  are  in  a  state  of 
slavery." 

[55] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

through  fear  or  ignorance  many  return  south 
again  to  their  bondage.  The  sum  necessary  for 
a  slave  to  buy  his  freedom,  subject  as  he  would  be 
to  arbitrary  taxation  and  recapture,  is  prohibitive, 
so  only  escape  remains  with  its  attendant  risks. 

As  Salam  trudged  beside  me  through  the  oasis 
of  Tripoli,  or  during  quiet  hours  spent  together 
in  my  lokanda,  he  told  me  of  himself  and  his 
people.  In  order  to  appreciate  the  circumstances 
surrounding  Salam's  capture,  one  must  under- 
stand the  conditions  in  his  country.  A  state  of 
feudal  warfare  between  many  neighboring  towns 
is  a  chronic  condition  throughout  Hausaland. 
The  tribute-paying  system  rather  than  a  state  of 
war  was  responsible  for  slave  raiding,  for  vassal 
chiefs  and  towns  were  obliged  to  include  large 
numbers  of  slaves  in  their  annual  tribute.  The 
powerful  Sultan  of  Sokoto  demanded  from  the 
Hausa  states  three-fourths  of  his  tribute  in  human 
beings — and  got  them — ten  thousand  coming 
from  the  King  of  Adamawa  alone.  It  was  in  one 
of  these  slave-raiding  expeditions  that  Salam  was 
first  made  a  slave.  At  the  time  he  lived  at 
Midaroka,  where  he  had  been  taken  by  his 
brother-in-law,  Lasunvadi,  after  the  death  of  his 
parents. 

[56] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

"  I  was  cutting  fodder  in  the  open  with  Lasun- 
vadi's  slaves,"  said  Salam.  *'We  had  stopped 
work  to  await  the  approach  of  a  great  number  of 
horsemen,  thinking  they  were  some  of  our  own 
people.  'They  are  warriors  of  Filahni!'  sud- 
denly cried  a  slave  and  we  fled  for  the  brush.  I 
was  among  those  captured  and  taken  to  Filahni. 
The  journey  was  hard;  some  of  the  slaves  at- 
tempted to  escape  and  were  clubbed  to  death. 
I  was  then  fourteen  years  old  and  valuable,  so  I 
became  the  property  of  Durbee,  the  Bashaw's 
son.  Durbee  was  just  to  his  slaves,  and  we 
fared  well.  He  had  a  great  many  horses  which 
means  wealth  and  power  in  my  land,  for  every 
horfs  means  a  mounted  warrior. 

"My  work  was  about  my  master's  compound, 
but  often  I  would  steal  away  and  sleep  in  the 
shade  of  a  papaw  tree,  or  watch  the  scarlet- 
breasted  jamberdes  flit  about,  and  the  monkeys 
chase  and  swing  among  the  branches.  Some- 
times Durbee  himself  would  find  me  and  shake 
me  awake.  *For  what  do  I  give  you  yams  and 
dawaf  [bread]  he  would  say.  I  would  reply, 
'Haste  is  of  the  devil  and  tardiness  from  the  All 
Merciful.'  'Hubba!  thou  lazy  mud  fish,'  he 
would  shout,  and  it  would  be  many  days  before 

[57] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

my  back  would  heal  from  the  welts  of  his 
rhinoceros  hide." 

Working  when  made  to,  sleeping  when  he 
could,  a  year  passed.  In  the  evening  he  watched 
the  slaves  gamble  about  the  fire,  often  staking 
anything  of  value  he  might  have  acquired.  As 
slaves  and  cowries  form  the  chief  currency  of  the 
people,  these  are  naturally  the  principal  stakes 
in  games  of  chance.  The  little  white  cowrie 
shells  found  on  certain  parts  of  the  African 
coast  are,  so  to  speak,  the  small  change  of  the 
country.  Several  years  ago  the  value  of  a  single 
cowrie  was  about  one-eightieth  of  a  cent,  i.  e., 
two  thousand  equalled  a  quarter  of  a  dollar. 
The  inconvenience  of  this  "fractional  currency" 
is  evident,  considering  that  three-quarters  of  a 
million,  weighing  over  a  ton  and  a  half,  were  paid 
by  a  king  to  an  explorer  for  a  few  rolls  of  silk. 
Consequently,  the  check-book  of  wealthy  Hausas, 
when  travelling,  is  an  extra  number  of  slaves,  one 
of  which  from  time  to  time  they  cash  for  cowries. 

The  shells  are  also  worn  about  the  person  as 
a  protection  from  any  evil  influence,  or  the  "evil 
eye."  Five  selected  cowries,  for  gambling,  may 
be  found  in  the  possession  of  most  Hausas. 
Hardly  second  to  the  curse  of  slavery  in  Hausa- 

[58] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

land  is  that  of  gambling  and  the  passion  for  it 
among  these  people  is  unrestrained.  It  takes 
its  most  insidious  form  in  the  game  of  *'chaca," 
played  by  tossing  up  the  five  cowries,  the  result 
depending  upon  the  way  they  fall.  At  times 
there  is  no  limit  to  the  stakes,  and  the  escutcheon 
of  Hausaland  might  well  be  five  white  cowrie 
shells  on  a  field  of  black. 

Salam  once  told  me  that  a  friend  of  his  master 
was  playing  one  evening  after  much  lahhy  [a 
palm  wine]  had  been  drunk.  "Everybody  was 
excited,"  said  he,  "for  the  'evil  eye'  was  on  him, 
and  time  after  time  his  cowries  fell  the  wrong 
way.  Losing  first  his  wives,  then  his  horses,  he 
turned  to  his  opponent  and  cried,  *  Throw  again; 
if  I  lose  I  am  your  slave.'  The  evil  spirit  of  the 
hyena  appeared  in  the  darkness — and  he  lost." 

In  Hausaland,  as  in  the  rest  of  native  Africa 
the  Bashaws  and  powerful  natives  are  generally 
the  judges,  and  not  only  the  poor  Hausa,  but  the 
owner  of  too  many  horses,  slaves,  and  wives, 
must  be  careful  how  he  treads,  lest  he  arouse  the 
apprehension  or  envy  of  his  Bashaw,  who  loses 
no  time  in  presenting  "requests"  for  gifts.  These 
demands  are  continued  until  his  subject  is  suflB- 
ciently  weakened  or  ruined. 

[59] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Now  Durbee  had  a  cousin  who  had  been  un- 
fairly appointed  Bashaw  by  the  Sultan  of  Sokoto. 
Despite  the  feeling  of  injustice  which  rankled  in 
Durbee's  breast,  he  loyally  complied  with  his 
cousin's  demands  for  horses,  until  his  favorite 
black  horse,  his  akawali,  alone  remained.  One 
morning  as  Salam  sat  in  the  porch  of  Durbee's 
house,  a  giant  negro  arrived  to  take  the  akawali 
and  to  summon  Durbee  before  the  Bashaw. 

*'My  master,"  said  Salam,  "was  not  feeling 
sweet,  and  seizing  his  war  spear  said  threaten- 
ingly, 'Take  him  if  you  can!  Bur-r-ro!  Go, 
tell  my  cousin  a  Bashaw  does  not  go  to  a  Bashaw, 
and  my  akawali  stays  with  me.  Tell  him  that  be- 
fore the  shadows  of  the  date-palms  have  darkened 
the  doorway  of  his  house  I  will  meet  him  to  fight.' 

"That  afternoon  Durbee  mounted  his  horse, 
took  his  shield  and  weapons,  and  went  out  alone. 
Some  of  us  followed  to  the  edge  of  the  palm 
grove,  and  as  the  appointed  time  drew  near  he 
rode  out  in  the  open.  There  on  the  hot  sands  he 
awaited  his  enemy.  The  hour  of  the  challenge 
passed,  but  the  coward  never  came.  Durbee 
kept  his  akawali,  and  before  the  annual  fast  of 
Ramadan  gathered  his  retainers  about  him  and 
supplanted  his  cousin." 

[60] 


A  Ilausa  Bashaw 

'There  on  the  hot  sands  he  awaited  his  enemy" 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

Shortly  after  this  Durbee  made  a  journey  to 
Sokoto  to  make  his  peace  with  the  Sultan  and 
left  Salam  with  a  friend  in  a  neighboring  town. 
This  man  treacherously  sold  him  for  two  thou- 
sand cowries  [$25]  in  Kano,  the  great  emporium 
of  Central  Africa. 

Within  its  fifteen  miles  of  mud  walls,  twenty  to 
forty  feet  in  height,  swarms  a  mass  of  black  and 
sun-tanned  humanity.  In  the  open  markets  cara- 
vans of  Black  traders  from  the  Congo  come  in  with 
their  long  lines  of  donkeys  weighted  down  with 
ivory,  gold  dust,  and  kola  nuts,  halting  perhaps 
beside  a  garfla  all  the  way  from  Tripoli  with  Euro- 
pean goods  and  trinkets,  or  from  the  salt  chotts  of 
Tunisia  and  Asben,for  salt  is  scarce  in  the  Sudan. 

Here  Arab  merchants  from  the  Mediterranean 
and  the  Red  Sea  meet  those  from  the  Niger  and 
the  Gulf  of  Guinea,  and  no  small  number  of  the 
two  million  nomads  who  pass  through  every 
year  are  Hausa  pilgrims  bound  for  Mecca.  The 
hadji  ^  or  pilgrimage  by  the  way  of  Central 
Sudan,  Tripoli,  or  Egypt  has  brought  the  Hausas 
in  touch  with  other  peoples  and  has  contributed 
much  to  Hausaland's  civilization.  i 


*  The  term  hadj,  or  hadji,  is  applied  both  to  the  pilgrimage  to 
Mecca  and  to  one  who  has  made  the  journey. 


[61] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Among  this  heterogeneous  mass  are  occasion- 
ally seen  those  fierce  white-skinned  sons  of  the 
desert,  the  Tuaregs.  You  can  tell  them  at  a 
glance  as,  lean  and  supple,  with  an  easy  panther- 
like tread,  they  glide  through  this  congested 
human  kaleidoscope.  Tall  and  picturesque,  with 
long  spears  or  flint-locks  in  their  hands,  and 
maybe  a  broadsword  across  their  backs,  appar- 
ently seeing  nothing,  they  observe  all.  Perhaps 
they  are  here  to  trade,  but  more  likely  to  keep 
close  watch  of  departing  caravans  bound  north- 
ward through  their  territory,  that  their  sheiks 
may  exact  homage  and  heavy  tribute,  or  failing 
in  this  may  loot. 

It  is  estimated  that  Kano  clothes  over  one-half 
of  the  great  population  of  the  Sudan.  In  the 
towns  of  Central  Tunisia,  two  thousand  miles 
away,  I  have  seen  the  indigo  and  scarlet  cloths 
of  Kano  hanging  next  to  those  of  Kairwan  and 
Sfax,  and  piled  in  the  Arab  fonduks  of  Tripoli, 
hundreds  of  camel  loads  of  her  tanned  goat-skins 
ready  for  shipment  to  New  York,  and  I  have 
watched  the  natives  in  the  markets  barter  for 
sandals  and  desert  slippers  of  Kano  dye. 

On  his  way  to  Kano,  Salam  passed  many  slave 
caravans.     Some  of  the  wretches  came  in  bound 

[62] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

with  thongs  or  under  heavy  yokes.  One  method 
was  to  fasten  ten  to  twenty  slaves  together,  one 
behind  the  other,  by  shoving  their  heads  through 
holes  cut  every  few  feet  in  a  long  wooden  yoke. 
Sometimes  one  of  these  human  strings  thus 
fastened  together  would  make  futile  attempts  to 
escape,  pathetically  jogging  in  step  through  the 
bush  or  forest  until  soon  run  down  by  their 
merciless  pursuers.  Now  and  again,  as  they 
staggered  by,  Salam  saw  a  slave,  too  weak  and 
exhausted  to  walk,  hanging  limp  by  his  neck,  his 
feet  dragging  along  the  ground,  his  dead  weight 
adding  to  the  insufferable  tortures  of  the  others 
hitched  to  the  same  yoke. 

At  such  times,  unless  near  a  market,  the  sick 
are  despatched  by  their  drivers  who,  not  wishing 
the  trouble  of  unshackling  a  wretch,  resort  to  the 
simple  expedient  of  decapitation,  thus  releasing 
soul  and  body  at  one  cruel  stroke. 

In  the  fifth  month  of  the  dry  season,  during 
Salam's  stay  in  Kano,  the  caravans  bound  north 
being  in  haste  to  leave  before  the  rains  began, 
his  master  gathered  his  men  and  goods  together, 
the  camels  and  donkeys  were  loaded,  and  they 
started  on  their  journey  across  the  Desert,  the 
Great  Solitary  Place.     They  took  plenty  of  kola 

[63] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

nuts  packed  between  damp  leaves  in  baskets. 
These  they  chewed  to  give  strength  to  travel  far 
without  food. 

**A  month's  journey,"  said  Salam,  "brought 
us  to  the  outlying  territory  of  my  people,  and  one 
night  we  passed  a  spot  where  there  was  once  a 
village  of  Tuaregs  under  two  sheiks.  On  one 
of  my  visits  there  with  Lasunvadi,  a  dog  came 
sniflSng  along  and  a  Tuareg  struck  him  with 
a  knife,  whereupon  the  dog's  owner  killed  the 
Tuareg.  The  men  of  both  sides  came  running 
from  all  directions  and  fought  till  there  were  not 
enough  left  to  bury  the  dead.  Those  who  were 
not  killed  left  the  village,  and  the  place  was 
called  Djibana,  the  Place  of  the  Cemetery  of  the 
Dog." 

At  Zinder,  Salam's  master  was  obliged  to  pay 
homage  and  tribute  in  order  to  pass  through 
the  territory  controlled  by  its  fierce  inhabitants, 
the  Asbenawa,  who  were  under  the  Bashaw  of 
Salam's  native  town,  Katsena.  One  glimpse  of 
Salam's  tribal  marks,  and  they  would  have  freed 
him  and  destroyed  the  caravan.  Knowing  this, 
his  master  gagged  him  and  did  him  up  tightly  in 
the  middle  of  one  of  the  camel  loads.  Here, 
jolted  and  bumped  against  other  camels,  unable 

[64] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

to  move  and  nearly  suffocated,  he  was  confined 
during  a  day's  march,  and  when  taken  out  more 
dead  than  alive,  his  limp  body  was  thrown  over 
a  donkey.  For  months  they  marched  north  over 
the  sand  and  rocky  lands  of  the  Desert.  Now 
and  again  a  garfla  man  paid  his  last  tribute  to 
the  sands  and  added  his  bones  to  the  many 
others  bleaching  in  the  sun  beside  the  caravan 
trails. 

At  last  they  reached  Ghadames,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  year,  having  passed  through  the 
hands  of  several  other  masters,  Salam  was  sold  to 
an  Arab  by  the  name  of  Hadji  Ahmed,  who  sent 
him  into  the  desert  to  raise  camels. 

It  was  one  night  in  my  lokanda  that  Salam  told 
me  of  his  escape. 

"From  time  to  time,"  began  Salam,  "my  mas- 
ter made  journeys  to  distant  towns,  even  as  far  as 
Tripoli,  leaving  the  slaves  for  months  without 
food  save  what  we  could  gather  ourselves.  One 
morning  while  the  stars  were  still  bright  and  the 
dried  grass  wet  with  the  night  dews,  I  left  on  a 
mehari  [running  camel].  By  midnight  of  the 
second  day  I  arrived  outside  the  walls  of  Ouragla, 
among  some  tents.  Near  one  of  these  the  mehari 
stopped  of  his  own  accord,  and  dismounting,  I 

[65] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

hobbled  him  and  lay  down  under  a  palm-tree  to 
sleep. 

*'I  was  startled  the  next  morning  at  the  sound 
of  a  voice  I  well  knew,  and  peered  out  from 
under  my  baracan.  Within  six  camel  lengths  of 
me  stood  Hadji  Ahmed,  my  master,  and  his 
head  slave. 

*"Hubba!'  said  he  to  the  mehari,  *thou  lump 
of  swine's  flesh!  How  came  you  here.?'  I 
knew  then  that  the  mehari  had  led  me  into  a 
trap. 

'*  *  Gibani !  the  mehari  is  hobbled.  What  does 
this  mean  ? '  said  my  master  to  the  head  slave. 
Seeing  I  was  about  to  be  discovered,  I  jumped  up 
and  ran  angrily  toward  them,  exclaiming,  '  Who 
should  have  brought  it  here  but  me,  whom  you 
left  without  food!' 

*'*  Who  showed  you  the  road  ?'  cried  he,  laying 
hold  of  me. 

'**My  hunger!'  Whereupon  they  both  set 
upon  me  and  flogged  me  and  the  next  day  I  was 
conducted  back  home. 

"Before  my  master  returned  from  Ouragla, 
I  planned  again  to  escape  with  Bako,  another 
slave;  we  would  avoid  the  towns  and  go  far 
north,  so  one  day  when  we  were  alone  branding 

[66] 


SAL.\M,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

camels  we  selected  the  fastest  mehara  [running 
camels]  in  the  herd  and  started. 

*'For  seven  days  and  nights  we  travelled  with- 
out stopping.  The  hot  sun  beat  down  upon  our 
heads;  the  second  day  a  sand-storm  dried  up 
what  little  water  we  had  in  our  goat-skins.  By 
turns  one  of  us,  tied  in  his  saddle,  slept  while  the 
other  led  his  camel.  Sometimes  we  would  slide 
down  from  the  humps  and  allow  the  mehara  to 
graze  as  we  walked  along.  We  found  no  water, 
and  the  beasts  began  to  show  signs  of  thirst  and 
uttered  strange  cries,  groaning  and  gurgling  as 
they  redrank  the  water  from  their  stomachs. 

"One  midnight — I  shall  ever  remember  it, 
Arfi  [master] — we  skirted  the  outlying  palms  of 
an  oasis.  Everything  was  very  clear  in  the 
moonlight,  and  water  was  there,  but  we  dared  go 
no  nearer  the  habitations  for  fear  of  capture, 
knowing  Ahmed  was  not  far  behind  us. 

"We  tightened  up  the  saddle  straps,  for  the 
mehara  had  grown  thin  and  the  soft  parts  of  their 
humps  had  almost  disappeared.  Bako's  saddle, 
made  for  loads,  was  hard  to  ride  and  had  pro- 
duced boils,  so  he  often  sat  behind  it  to  vary  the 
motion. 

"As  we  were  sick  and  weak,  every  stride  of  the 
[67] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

mehara  sent  pain  through  us.  We  knew  that  we 
could  not  much  longer  cling  to  our  saddles,  so  we 
lashed  each  other  on.  The  last  time  that  Bako 
fell  to  one  side  I  was  too  weak  to  help  him,  and 
he  rode  with  his  head  hanging  lower  than  his 
heels.  The  camel  ticks  burrowed  into  our  skin, 
our  tongues  were  cracked  and  bleeding  when  the 
mehara  at  last  staggered  into  Ghadames. 

"Some  days  after  the  Turkish  governor  of  that 
place  sent  us  here  to  Tripoli  with  a  caravan,  to  be 
taken  before  his  brother  the  Bey  [Redjed  Pasha]. 
Many  in  the  towns  came  to  the  Tuesday  Market 
to  see  the  caravan  come  in,  and  among  them  I 
saw  the  fat  form  of  one  of  my  former  masters, 
Sala  Heba — the  one  who  had  sold  me  to  Hadji 
Ahmed.  He  watched  us  enter  the  Castle,  where 
we  obtained  our  release,  and  as  I  came  out  a 
free  man  he  approached  me :  *  You  are  a  stranger 
in  the  town.  I  live  here  now.  Come  and  work 
for  me.'  So  I  did,  though  I  well  knew  the  old 
pig  had  heard  of  my  escape. 

'*  One  night  I  was  awakened  from  my  sleep  by 
Heba  holding  a  low  conversation  with  some  one 
in  the  court.  The  other  voice  I  recognized  as 
that  of  my  last  master,  Hadji  Ahmed,  and  I 
listened  from  the  roof  as  they  planned  my  re- 

[68] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

capture  by  inducing  me  to  go  south  again  as  a 
caravan  man. 

"The  next  morning  Hadji  Ahmed  called  for 
me  and  said:  'You  have  your  freedom  now. 
Come  as  a  driver  and  I  will  give  you  three 
medjidies  [$2.64],  clothes,  and  a  month's  wages 
of  three  more  in  advance,  to  go  back  with  the 
garfla.'  I  agreed,  and  taking  the  money,  went 
out  with  him  to  buy  a  new  burnoose  and  other 
clothes.  *Now,'  said  he,  *go  to  the  Fonduk-el- 
Burka  where  the  caravan  is  being  loaded.' 

"Taking  the  bundle,  I  chuckled  to  myself  as  I 
turned  up  a  side  street  where  lived  Sidi  Amoora, 
who  kept  open  house  for  slaves  and  often  pro- 
vid**d  them  with  money.  There  I  left  my  bundle 
and  hid  under  the  sea  wall,"  not  far  from  the 
house,  Arfi,  where  was  once  the  consulate  of 
your  country.  Hadji  Ahmed  and  his  men  ran  all 
over  town  in  search  of  me  and  at  last  one  found 
me  asleep  wrapped  in  my  new  burnoose. 

**'Bu-r-r-o!  Get  out.  The  garfla  is  going. 
Hurry!     Your  master  is  angry.' 

"'I  have  no  master,  I  am  a  Turk  now,'  said 
I.  Leaving  me,  the  man  returned  with  Hadji 
Ahmed,  who  angrily  ordered  me  off,  but  I 
laughed  and  said: 

[69] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

*'*Lah!     [No.]     I  know  your  schemes/ 

"'You  refuse  to  go?  You,  my  slave,  dare 
steal  my  money  as  a  tick  would  bleed  a  camel ! ' 
he  cried  threateningly,  but  I  sprang  from  his 
grasp  as  he  attempted  to  seize  me. 

*'*Give  me  the  clothes  and  the  medjidies,'  he 
commanded. 

***Lah!  I  have  use  for  them.  I  go  to  the  Bey 
to  pay  for  a  protest  against  you.' 

"At  this  Ahmed  was  greatly  scared,  though 
more  angry,  but  I  was  safe  enough  there  by  the 
sea  wall,  as  free  as  Hadji  himself,  who  well  knew 
the  Bey  could  punish  him  and  confiscate  his 
goods. 

*** Never  mind,'  said  he;  *here  are  three  more 
medjidies.'     I  took  them. 

"* Kafir!'  said  I,  *thou  white-faced  horse  with 
weak  eyes!'  And  that  was  the  last  I  ever  saw 
of  him,  but  I  often  went  to  visit  the  fat  Heba  to 
inquire  after  his  health  and  to  show  him  my  new 
burnoose." 

"But  the  medjidies,  Salam.?"  I  laughingly 
queried.  The  dark  eyes  met  mine  for  a  moment; 
the  pupils  seemed  to  contract  fiercely.  Then  a 
black  hand  disappeared  under  the  folds  of  his 
baracan. 

[70] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

"I  bought  this,"  said  he,  and  drew  from  its 
sheath  a  beautifully  worked  dagger,  the  crooked 
blade  of  which  flashed  silver  in   the  lamplight. 

Not  long  after  Salam  had  related  his  narrative 
to  me  a  most  unexpected  event  occurred.  One 
hot  morning,  from  out  the  sounds  of  the  Arab 
town  life,  came  the  faint  rhythmic  cadence  of 
distant-beating  tom-toms.  As  their  echoes  vi- 
brated up  the  narrow  Street  of  the  Milk  Sellers' 
Market,  I  went  out  in  time  to  meet  a  small  com- 
pany of  Blacks.  They  were  parading  the  town 
by  way  of  announcing  to  their  race  the  event  of  a 
religious  dance,  to  be  held  near  the  palm  groves 
of  the  oasis  outside  the  town. 

Late  that  afternoon  found  me  in  company  with 
Salam  headed  in  the  direction  of  their  rendez- 
vous. Salam  was  dressed  in  his  best  fez  and 
baracan,  with  a  little  bouquet  of  blossoms  tucked 
behind  his  ear.  In  one  hand  he  carried — as  was 
his  custom  on  auspicious  occasions — a  piece  of 
discarded  copper  cable  which  he  had  picked  up 
as  a  prize  at  the  cable  station.  Turning  a  corner 
of  a  building  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  we 
came  into  full  view  of  a  barbaric  Sudanese  dance. 

Forming  a  great  ring  seventy-five  yards  in 
diameter  was  a  wild  lot  of  some  two  hundred 

[71] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Blacks/  surrounded  by  twice  as  many  excited 
spectators.  Its  limits  were  fixed  by  poles,  from 
w^hose  tops  the  green  flag  of  the  Prophet  occasion- 
ally fluttered  in  the  hot  breeze.  Most  of  the 
participants  wore  gaudy-colored  vests,  below 
which  hung  loose  skirts  weighted  here  and  there 
at  the  edges.  Each  carried  a  heavy  krasruUah, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  certain  understood  forms 
which  they  observed  in  the  dance.  For  nearly 
half  a  minute  the  tom-toms,  re-enforced  by  the 
squawking  oboes  and  clashing  cymbals,  would 
sound  out  their  wild  strains  in  regular  cadence. 
Meanwhile  the  dancers  would  beat  time,  holding 
their  clubs  vertically,  scuflSng  up  the  hot  sand  and 
uttering  strange  grunts.  Facing  one  another  in 
pairs,  they  would  accentuate  the  beats  by  sharply 
cracking  their  clubs  together  several  times. 

At  sudden  flares  of  music  they  would  turn 
violently  round  and  round,  sending  up  great 
clouds  of  orange  sand,  their  weighted  skirts 
swirling  out  almost  horizontally  about  their 
waists.  Then  they  would  bring  up  short,  each 
opposite  another  partner,  with  a  crack  of  their 
clubs;  and  so  the  dance  went  on. 

*  These  were  nomads  and  of  two  tribes,  the  Ouled  Bedi  from  Bedi 
and  the  Ouled  Wadi  Baghermi.  Baghermi  is  near  Kuka,  just  west 
of  Lake  Chad.     Both  places  may  be  found  on  maps. 

[72] 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

My  presence  and  black  camera  box  seemed 
to  arouse  their  suspicion  and  animosity.  These 
fanatics  had  been  dancing  for  hours  in  the  hot 
sun  and  were  crazed  with  the  intoxicating  lakby 
until  they  had  reached  a  state  of  religious  frenzy 
of  which  I  was  not  aware  until  too  late. 

Pushing  my  way  through  the  circle  of  onlook- 
ers, I  took  a  picture  of  the  barbaric  crew  dripping 
with  perspiration,  Salam  urging  me  to  be  quick. 
An  old  man  and  a  tall,  ugly-looking  brute  broke 
from  the  ring  and  ran  toward  me.  Click!  went 
my  camera  a  second  time  when,  without 
warning,  from  the  crowd  behind  came  a  volley  of 
stones ;  some  struck  me ;  the  rest  whizzed  by  into 
the  centre  of  the  ring,  striking  one  or  two  of  the 
dancers.  Those  nearest  left  the  dance,  and 
joined  the  several  hundred  black,  sweating  devils 
who  had  surrounded  me.  Salam  sprang  be- 
tween me  and  the  old  chief,  asking  him  to  call 
off  his  tribesmen.  But  Salam  was  of  a  tribe  un- 
known to  these  Sudanese  nomads  and  no  atten- 
tion was  paid  to  him. 

"Shall  I  go  for  guards,  Arfi?"  said  Salam. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  and  slipping  back  from  the 
crowd  he  disappeared.  The  whole  thing  oc- 
curred so  suddenly  that  I  had  not  realized  the 

[73] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

significance  of  the  danger  until  he  had  gone  and 
I  found  myself  in  the  vortex  of  this  frenzied 
human  whirlpool. 

Only  a  few  individual  faces  stood  out  of  the 
crowd,  the  two  who  left  the  ring  and  a  loathsome 
individual,  seemingly  a  marabout,  who  spat  at 
me.  Those  behind  jabbed  me  with  the  ends  of 
their  clubs.  Those  in  front,  led  by  the  old  man, 
gesticulated  and  shouted  and  shook  their  clubs 
above  their  heads.  Meanwhile,  bruised  from 
one  of  the  stones,  I  limped  as  slowly  as  my  im- 
patience would  permit  across  the  open  space  and 
managed  to  work  my  way  alongside  the  stand 
of  an  Arab  fruit  seller.  Here,  to  disguise  my 
mingled  feelings  of  anger  and  apprehension,  I 
bought  some  figs.  Discarding  the  poorer  ones, 
I  proceeded  to  eat  the  rest  in  the  most  approved 
native  fashion,  affecting  meanwhile  a  steadiness 
of  hand  which  quite  belied  me. 

Instead  of  quieting  the  crowd,  my  attitude 
served  to  make  them  more  furious.  They  yelled 
and  threatened  in  my  face,  while  I  clung  tightly 
to  my  camera  box  and  wondered  how  much  re- 
sistance there  was  in  my  pith  sun  helmet.  I  had 
no  weapon  and  it  was  better  so,  for  one  would 
have  been  useless  against  these  fanatics. 

[74] 


c3 

-a 


SALAM,  A  HAUSA  SLAVE 

The  big  negro  stepped  forward  in  a  menacing 
attitude  toward  me  as  Salam  suddenly  reap- 
peared. Unable  to  find  guards,  he  had  passed 
the  word  and  returned  to  my  assistance.  Thrust- 
ing aside  one  or  two  who  blocked  his  way,  he 
confronted  the  Black  and  drew  his  attention 
from  me  by  deliberately  insulting  him  and  his 
tribe  in  languag'e  which  I  afterward  learned  was 
not  poetical. 

If  the  affair  had  not  been  so  serious,  the  situa- 
tion would  have  been  laughable.  Puffed  up  to 
his  greatest  height  stood  the  big  Black,  wielding 
his  club  above  his  head.  Below  him  Salam's 
short  figure  was  gathered  back,  every  muscle 
speaking  defiance,  as  he  crouched  with  his  in- 
significant piece  of  copper  cable  upraised.  Both 
glowered  at  one  another  like  wild  beasts.  A 
second  more  and  the  game  would  have  been  up 
with  us  both. 

"Salam!"  I  said  sharply,  at  the  same  time 
pulling  him  back.  But  his  blood  was  up  and  he 
sprang  from  my  grasp.  A  sickening  fear  seized 
me.  At  that  moment  a  shout  went  up,  there  was 
a  scuffle,  Turkish  guards  thrust  them  aside  with 
their  rifle  butts,  and  dispersing  the  crowd  es- 
corted us  safely  back  to  town. 

[75] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

There  was  only  one  reason  which  led  me  to 
request  that  no  troops  be  sent  to  gather  in  the 
ringleaders.  Salam's  life  afterward  would  not 
have  been  worth  the  hide  of  his  desert  slippers. 


[76] 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE   MASKED   TUAREGS 

TO  the  Arab  are  generally  accredited  the  con- 
trol and  ownership  of  the  Great  Sahara, 
but  in  reality  there,  far  away  from  the  coasts,  a 
people  as  mysterious  as  the  trackless  sands — the 
masked  Tuaregs — are  the  real  rulers  and  buc- 
caneers of  the  Desert.  Their  homes  are  in  the 
very  heart  of  those  arid  wastes,  whose  vast  soli- 
tudes seem  shrouded  in  mystery,  and  where  over 
it  all  one  feels  at  times,  even  in  the  sunlight,  an 
uncanny  brooding. 

In  the  vicinity  of  Timbuktu  dwell  the  Aweelim- 
miden  tribe,  the  westernmost  of  the  Tuareg  tribal 
confederation.  In  the  very  centre  of  the  Sahara 
and  in  the  rugged  Hoggar  Mountains,  under  the 
Tropic  of  Cancer,  live  perhaps  the  most  blood- 
thirsty of  all — the  Hoggars.  In  the  deserts  in 
the  vicinity  of  Ghadames  and  Ghat,  where  the 
border  line  of  Tripoli  seems  to  open  its  mouth, 
roam  the  Asgars,  while  to  the  south  of  Tripoli  the 

[77] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Kelowis  infest  and  control  the  regions  through 
which  pass  two  caravan  routes  from  TripoH  to  the 
Sudan.  Every  southbound  caravan  from  Tripoli 
is  forced  to  pass  through  Tuareg  territory.  For 
this  privilege  the  garfla  sheik  must  in  person 
salute  the  Tuareg  Sultan  and  pay  a  toll  accord- 
ing to  the  wealth  of  his  merchandise,  in  addition 
to  a  fixed  tariff,  which  is  levied  on  all  caravans- 
And  woe  betide  the  luckless  caravan  whose  inde- 
pendent sheik  refuses  to  pay  tribute  or  which  is 
caught  in  the  meshes  of  tribal  wars! 

The  Tuaregs  are  masters  of  a  territory  half 
the  area  of  the  United  States  in  extent.  It 
reaches  from  Barbary  to  the  Niger,  from  the 
fever-laden  districts  of  Semmur  and  Senegal  on 
the  Atlantic  to  the  land  of  the  wild  Tebus,  who 
occupy  and  control  the  deserts  east  of  Lake 
Chad.  Out  of  the  million  and  a  half  square 
miles  of  Tuareg  territory  scarcely  more  than  the 
area  of  New  York  City  is  cultivated  land,  and 
even  this,  in  most  cases,  is  saved  only  by  a  con- 
stant fight  against  the  relentless  march  of  the 
drifting  sand.  Fearless  and  enduring  must  a 
people  be  who  can  live,  travel,  and  thrive  in  such 
a  desolation. 

Mounted  on  swift  mehara,  fleet-footed  horses, 
[78] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

or  depending  only  on  their  own  hardihood  and 
endurance — now  here,  gone  to-morrow — these 
fierce  adventurers,  mysterious  and  as  shifting  as 
the  sands  over  which  they  rove,  occasionally 
drift  northward  for  trade,  to  forage,  or  in  the 
pursuit  of  plunder. 

At  times  they  are  seen  in  the  most  important 
suks  of  the  northern  Sahara  and  of  the  Sudan, 
perhaps  to  convoy  caravans,  to  spy  upon  them, 
or  with  garflas  of  their  own. 

These  suks  are  in  the  great  marts  where  the 
people  from  long  distances  meet  to  trade;  so, 
too,  they  are  naturally  the  focal  points  of  the 
caravan  routes. 

Tripoli  caravans  which  cross  the  Sahara  often 
travel  from  three  to  four  thousand  miles,  involv- 
ing enormous  outlay,  great  risks,  and  sometimes 
taking  two  years  for  the  round  voyage — all  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  exchanging  the  merchandise 
of  the  north  for  the  wares  and  products  of  the 
Sudan. 

From  Morocco  to  Tripoli  I  had  heard  vague 
rumors  of  these  strange  rovers  of  the  yellow 
main,  of  their  cunning  and  their  relentless 
ferocity;  but  only  once  had  I  met  any  one  who 
had  ever  actually  seen  a  Tuareg,  one  of  the  God- 

[79] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

forsaken,  as  the  Arabs  call  them.  Shortly  after 
my  arrival  in  Tripoli  I  set  out  to  get  information 
about  them.  But  information  was  scarce,  save 
along  one  line — the  pillaging  of  caravans. 

One  night,  as  was  my  wont,  found  me  at  the 
home  of  my  friend  Riley. 

"Only  Old  Mustafa,"  he  commented  as  he 
joined  us  on  the  balcony  which  surrounded 
the  inner  court.  Old  Mustafa  was  one  of  the 
shrewdest  Arabs  in  Tripoli.  Fifteen  years  before 
he  picked  up  bones  for  a  living ;  now  he  was  one 
of  the  wealthiest  merchants  in  the  town.  But  in 
the  past  few  years  much  of  his  wealth,  invested 
in  the  caravan  trade,  had  been  emptied  out  on  the 
desert  by  the  Tuaregs,  Tebus,  and  Gatrunys. 
But  a  little  while  before  a  rider  had  come  with 
bad  news  from  the  south  on  a  mehari  from 
Murzuk.  Details  were  meagre,  but  the  home- 
ward-bound caravan  had  been  attacked  between 
the  Bilma  oasis  and  Kawar,  on  the  Chad  trail. 
This  trail  is  the  most  direct  and  westerly  of  the 
two  main  routes,  and  had  been  considered  fairly 
safe  by  reason  of  the  recent  British  occupancy  of 
Kuka  at  its  southern  end.  The  other,  to  the 
south-west,  by  way  of  Ghadames,  Ghat,  and  Air, 
of  late  years  had  proved  a  costly  risk.     The  great 

[80] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

menace  to  the  caravan  trade  is  the  Tuareg.  It 
is  he  who  is  generally  responsible  for  the  looting 
of  the  garflas :  perhaps  indirectly,  as  in  the  case 
of  a  recent  attack  by  the  Rashada,  a  wild  Tebu 
tribe  from  the  east  of  the  Ghat  route,  which  had 
suffered  the  loss  of  some  camels  through  a  border 
invasion  of  Tuaregs.  Failing  to  regain  posses- 
sion, they  took  it  out  of  the  next  Tripoli  cara- 
van, at  a  small  oasis  called  Falesselez,  and  car- 
ried off  some  eighty  loads  of  ostrich  feathers  and 
three  hundred  and  eighty  loads  of  Sudan  skins. 
It  was  a  good  haul  for  one  raid,  but  hardly  a 
circumstance,  as  compared  with  the  Damerghu 
affair,  about  half-way  between  Kano  and  Air. 
This  caravan  was  one  of  the  largest  which  had 
left  Kano,  consisting  of  thirteen  thousand  camels, 
not  to  mention  donkeys,  goats,  and  sheep.  This 
time  it  was  being  convoyed  mainly  by  Kelowi 
Tuaregs,  and  started  from  the  south.  When 
about  half-way  between  Kano  and  Air  it  was 
attacked  by  the  Damerghu,  who  had  an  old 
score  to  settle  with  the  Kelowis.  They  literally 
got  away  with  the  whole  outfit  to  the  amount  of 
nearly  a  million  dollars*  worth  of  animals  and 
goods.  Old  Mustafa  was  not  caught  in  this 
raid,  which  nearly  caused  a  commercial  crisis  in 

[81] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Tripoli  and  left  the  bones  of  twelve  of  her  best 
caravaneers  beside  the  trail. 

Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  the  Tuaregs  are 
not  only  despoilers  of  the  caravan  trade,  but 
also  make  that  trade  possible  through  their  pro- 
tection as  escorts.  For,  when  tribute  is  paid  for 
safe-conduct  through  their  territory,  these  swarthy 
warriors,  mounted  high  on  their  lurching  mehara, 
accompany  the  caravan  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
territory,  or,  as  sometimes  happens,  agree  to  pro- 
tect it  through  adjoining  dangerous  districts. 
On  these  occasions  they  will  fight  as  for  their 
own  with  all  the  ferocity  of  their  leonine  natures. 
During  the  march,  however,  should  one  of  these 
eagle-eyed  adventurers  spy  some  object  which 
strikes  his  fancy  belonging  to  a  caravaneer,  the 
latter  is  informed  of  that  fact,  whereupon  the 
object  changes  owners — even  to  the  stripping 
from  his  back  of  his  baracan. 

"Where  can  I  find  the  Tuaregs.?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,"  replied  M.  Zolia,  eying  me  quizzically, 
**most  people  are  afraid  that  the  Tuaregs  will 
find  them.  Their  nearest  town  is  Ghadames, 
twenty  days'  camel's  journey — if  you're  lucky. 
Not  within  the  memory  of  any  of  us  Europeans 
here  in  Tripoli  has  a  Christian  ever  been  per- 

[82] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

mitted  by  the  Turks  even  to  start  on  that  route, 
but  a  number  have  tried  to  enter  from  southern 
Tunisia. 

"Let  me  tell  you  of  one  daring  attempt  made 
by  two  young  French  lieutenants.  One  was  of 
the  Spahis,  the  other  of  the  Engineers,  both 
stationed  in  southern  Tunisia.  Knowing  that 
permission  to  make  the  journey  to  Ghadames 
would  be  refused  owing  to  frontier  difficulties, 
they  obtained  leave,  ostensibly  for  a  trip  to 
Algiers. 

"An  Arab  guide  had  been  secured,  and  that 
night  three  muffled  figures  mounted  on  mehara 
sped  along  the  starlit  sands  toward  Ghadames. 
At  one  place  they  stopped  to  rest  near  the  kouba 
[saint's  house]  of  a  marabout;  then,  leaving  it  and 
its  solitary  occupant,  continued  on.  After  a 
fatiguing  journey  the  white  walls  and  date-palms 
of  their  goal  appeared  on  the  horizon,  clear-cut 
against  the  blue  sky.  As  they  drew  up  to  the 
gates  of  the  city,  however,  they  were  met  by  a 
menacing,  jeering  mob — for  the  marabout's  eyes 
were  keen  and  his  mehari  fresh. 

"Amidst  cries  of  Roumi!  Yahudi!  and  vol- 
leys of  stones  they  were  forced  to  retreat  for  their 
very  lives.     Fearing  an  attack,  they  took  a  cir- 

[83] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

cuitous  route  devoid  of  wells,  and  after  super- 
human exertions  staggered  back  to  their  starting- 
point." 

I  well  knew  the  futility  of  obtaining  permission 
from  the  Pasha  to  travel  in  that  direction;  be- 
sides, my  contemplated  route  lay  south-east. 
But,  being  anxious  to  get  at  least  one  glimpse  of 
a  Tuareg,  I  persisted  in  my  inquiry. 

"Well,  you  might  cross  their  trail  in  the 
desert,"  replied  M.  Zolia,  "and  by  some  chance 
you  might  run  across  them  right  here  in  Tripoli, 
for  occasionally  they  come  in  with  the  caravans, 
or  to  trade." 

"Then  I  could  knock  off  a  sketch." 

"A  sketch!"  ejaculated  Riley.  "Gad,  man, 
don't  try  any  white  man's  magic  with  your  pencil 
or  camera  on  those  fellows.  That  black  camera 
box  of  yours,  with  a  glass  eye  pointing  at  them, 
they  would  regard  as  an  evil  thing.  They  might 
think  you  could  cast  a  spell  over  them,  and  one 
method  of  breaking  it  would  be  to  stab  the  evil 
one  casting  it.  *Dead  men  cast  no  spells'  is 
their  motto.  Keep  away  from  them ;  don't  even 
appear  too  curious.  They  are  childishly  super- 
stitious; you  might  unwittingly  offend  them  by 
some  trivial  act,  and  their  knives  are  long." 

[84] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  Tuareg  is  of  the 
white  race,  and,  were  it  not  for  the  fierce  exposure 
to  sand-storm  and  desert  sun,  these  swarthy 
children  of  nature  would  undoubtedly  count 
many  of  a  Saxon  fairness  among  them.  In  their 
veins  flows  the  blood  of  Berber  ancestry,  and  in 
their  language  is  preserved  the  purest  speech  of 
that  tongue.  The  ancestors  of  these  tribes  were 
likely  the  most  liberty-loving  of  that  independent 
race,  and  probably,  rather  than  be  subjugated, 
they  retreated  into  the  vast  spaces  of  the  Great 
Desert.  Here,  at  certain  centres,  they  have 
towns  built  under  the  shade  of  the  towering  date- 
palms  of  the  oases;  but  most  of  their  life,  often 
without  food  and  shelter,  is  spent  on  the  march; 
a  wild  sally  here  on  a  caravan,  or  a  fierce  on- 
slaught there  into  an  enemy's  territory  from  their 
borders,  then  the  rapid  retreat  and  the  dividing 
of  the  loot. 

They  seem  to  have  drawn  their  religion  from 
the  countries  bordering  the  north  and  south  of 
their  territory,  for  it  embodies  certain  forms 
of  Mohammedanism  of  their  Arab  neighbors, 
combined  with  more  or  less  of  the  fetichism  of 
the  Sudanese.  Their  daily  life  is  a  defying  of 
the  deathlike  wastes,  and  it  is  but  natural  that 

[85] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  lonely  vigil  of  night,  the  yellow  gloom  of  the 
sand-storm,  and  all  the  mysterious  phenomena 
of  those  deserts  over  which  they  roam,  should  be 
associated  by  these  people  with  the  jinn  and 
evil  spirits  with  which  their  legends  and  folk- 
lore abound. 

"Never  promise  more  than  half  of  what  you 
can  perform,"  runs  a  Tuareg  proverb,  and  trav- 
ellers and  French  army  officers  have  claimed 
for  the  Tuareg  steadfastness  of  character,  the  de- 
fence of  a  guest,  and  the  keeping  of  promises. 
This,  however,  was  not  borne  out  in  three 
instances  where  small  bands  of  the  White 
Fathers  [French  missionaries]  relied  upon  the 
Tuaregs'  word  for  a  safe  escort,  only  to  be  mur- 
dered when  far  on  their  journey;  nor  in  the  case 
of  the  Flatters  Expedition,  which  left  southern 
Algeria  to  study  questions  of  railway  communi- 
cation across  the  Sahara.  This  ill-fated  company 
left  Ouargla,  Algeria,  about  a  hundred  strong — 
French  native  tirailleurs,  Arab  guides,  and  camel 
drivers  enough  to  attend  to  the  caravan  of  some 
three  hundred  camels  all  told.  Attached  to  the 
party  were  a  number  of  Tuaregs.  Week  after 
week    they    toiled    in    measured    march    south, 

passed  Amgid,  and  entered  the  very  heart  of  the 

[86] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

Hoggar  country.  Here  they  were  led  into  a 
Tuareg  ambush.  Those  who  escaped  took  up, 
without  adequate  transport  or  provisions,  a  fear- 
ful retreat  over  their  trail,  harassed  by  Tuaregs 
and  dying  from  starvation,  sickness,  and  ex- 
haustion. Every  Frenchman  succumbed,  and  at 
last  four  survivors,  covering  a  distance  of  fifteen 
hundred  kilometers  north,  crept  back  to  Ouargla. 

These  incidents  give  a  different  side  of  Tuareg 
character,  and  are  more  in  accord  with  the 
accounts  I  picked  up  in  Tripoli.  Nevertheless 
the  Tuareg  undoubtedly  has  many  admirable 
qualities. 

Although  polygamy  is  permitted  by  their  law, 
it  is  said  it  is  never  practised;  women  hold 
property  in  their  own  right  even  after  marriage. 
Most  of  their  women  can  read  and  write,  and, 
often  pretty  and  delicate  featured,  they  spend  a 
part  of  their  time  within  their  tents  of  goat-skins 
or  camel's  hair  teaching  their  children. 

The  Tuareg  social  system  is  on  a  well-organ- 
ized basis;  in  it  appear  four  distinct  strata  of 
society:  the  Nobles  who  are  the  pure-blooded 
Tuaregs;  the  Iradjenatan,  half-blooded  descend- 
ants of  Nobles  and  their  vassals;  serfs,  hereditary 
descendants  of  weaker  tribes  or  of  freed  slaves, 

[87] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

who,  often  banding  together,  go  out  on  foraging 
affairs  of  their  own,  passing  Hke  mysterious  phan- 
toms over  the  sands.  In  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning  they  come  down  with  a  rush  on  some 
unsuspecting  douar  [village].  Sunrise  finds  them 
miles  away,  red-handed  with  their  loot.  Lastly 
are  the  Bellates,  or  Black  slaves,  who  become 
much  attached  to  their  masters,  often  refusing 
their  freedom  when  offered,  preferring  to  retain 
their  Tuareg  citizenship  rather  than  seek  their 
homes  in  the  Sudan.  The  Tuaregs  resort  to  the 
same  method  of  branding  their  slaves  as  do  the 
Arabs — slashing  out  strips  of  flesh  from  the 
calves,  cheeks,  or  temples. 

One  stifling  morning  in  mid- July  a  surprise 
awaited  me.  Only  the  noise  of  a  disconsolate 
camel  or  the  drone  of  some  drowsy  insect  among 
the  courtyard  plants  of  my  lokanda  drifted  on 
the  heated  air.  I  paused  a  moment  on  the  thresh- 
old, as  we  are  wont  to  do,  perhaps  through 
primeval  instinct,  then  stepped  out  into  the  nar- 
row, sun-baked  street.  Just  ahead  of  me  another 
crossed  it,  cleaving  its  way  between  the  white- 
walled  Arab  houses.  My  ear  caught  the  soft 
scuff  of  sandalled  feet,  a  white  garment  flapped 
out  from  beyond  a  corner  stone,  then  two  tall 

[88] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

figures  swung  suddenly  around  the  corner. 
Tuaregs!  There  was  no  doubting  it,  for  their 
faces  were  masked  behind  the  dark  litham  [veil 
mask],  through  whose  open  slit  two  pairs  of  eyes 
looked  catlike  and  fixedly  at  me — then  we  passed. 

Giving  them  barely  time  to  get  beyond  my 
lokanda,  I  ran  for  my  camera  and  into  the  street 
again,  but  the  Tuaregs  had  disappeared.  They 
could  not  have  gone  far,  and  being  strangers  in 
the  town,  would  not  have  entered  any  Arab 
house.  My  surmise  that  they  had  turned  down 
a  street  leading  to  the  bazaar  quarter  of  the  town 
proved  true  and  I  was  soon  following  in  their  wake. 

Draped  gracefully  over  their  lean,  supple 
figures,  in  a  way  which  a  Roman  pretor  might 
have  envied,  was  a  light  haik  or  kheiki,  from 
which  protruded  the  white  sleeves  of  a  gray  Su- 
danese tunic.  White  kortebbas  [trousers]  reached 
to  their  feet,  on  which  were  lashed  their  ghatemin^ 
sandals  of  tooled  leather,  secured  by  crossed  raw- 
hide thongs  passing  between  the  toes  and  secured 
at  the  ankles. 

One  carried  a  long  spear,  and  crosswise  over 
his  back  a  beautifully  proportioned  two-edged 
sword  hung  in  a  richly  worked  sheath ;  the  other 
bore  an  Arab  flint-lock,  and  up  the  sleeve  I  knew 

[89] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

each  concealed  a  wicked  knife.  They  shortly 
turned  into  the  trellis-covered  Suk-el-Turc,  and 
at  a  call  from  an  Arab  stopped  before  the  small 
wall  opening  of  a  shop. 

Only  round  golden  spots  of  sunlight  percolated 
through  the  heavy  clustered  vines  and  purple 
fruit  and  scintillated  on  their  copper  bead  neck- 
laces and  silver  amulet  cases;  but  the  narrow, 
crowded  mart  was  too  dark  to  risk  a  shot  with 
my  camera,  for  I  must  insure  the  success  of  my 
first  attempt,  before  their  suspicions  were  aroused. 
From  the  covering  of  the  booth  of  a  Jewish  sil- 
versmith I  watched  the  transaction  with  interest. 

The  Arab  was  bartering  for  their  weapons, 
and,  after  Arab  custom,  transcribed  his  conver- 
sation in  imagination  on  the  palm  of  his  hand 
with  his  index  finger.  Unlike  the  Arab,  the 
Tuaregs  seemed  to  disdain  haggling  over  the 
price,  and  after  an  occasional  low  guttural  grunt, 
by  no  means  lacking  in  intonation,  brought  the 
trade  to  a  sudden  termination.  One  of  them 
threw  back  the  sleeve  of  his  tunic  and  slipped  the 
leather  bracelet  of  a  long  knife  scabbard  from 
the  wrist  of  his  left  arm.  Handing  scabbard  and 
weapon  to  the  Arab,  he  gathered  up  a  handful  of 
piasters  and  moved  on  with  his  companion. 

[90] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

I  slipped  from  my  retreat,  noted  the  Arab 
booth,  and  dodged  after  them  for  two  hours  as 
their  path  interlaced  through  the  maze  of  tor- 
tuous streets,  but  no  chance  presented  itself. 
Owing  to  my  distinctive  European  dress  and 
glaring  white  sun  helmet,  it  behooved  me  to  be 
doubly  cautious  both  for  the  success  of  my  under- 
taking and  my  safety.  But  I  made  the  most  of 
the  opportunity  to  study  carefully  their  appear- 
ance and  manner. 

Both  were  men  of  tall  stature,  at  least  six  feet 
in  height,  I  should  say.  This  was  accentuated 
by  their  wiry,  catlike  figures  and  the  style  of 
their  litham:  a  mask  in  two  pieces  with  broad 
flaps,  one  crossing  the  forehead,  the  other  the 
lower  part  of  the  face,  suspended  from  the  bridge 
of  the  clean-cut  aquiline  nose  or  just  below  it. 
They  adopt  this  covering,  it  is  said,  to  lessen  the 
evaporation  in  throat  and  nostrils,  and  rarely 
remove  it  even  when  eating  or  in  the  presence  of 
their  families.  Over  the  mask  was  wrapped, 
turban- wuse,  a  piece  of  white  material,  the  crown 
of  the  head  being  left  bare.  From  this  aperture, 
the  tadilmus,  a  lock  of  black  hair,  projected 
skyward. 

They  walked  with  an  easy,  even-paced  lope, 
[91] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

swinging  well  from  the  hips,  commencing  the 
forward  stride  of  one  leg  before  the  other  heel  had 
left  the  ground.  Every  motion  of  their  supple, 
catlike  bodies  gave  a  sense  of  muscles  trained 
to  perfection. 

A  glance  showed  them  to  be  men  inured  to  the 
most  brutal  hardship,  in  which  the  pitiless  ex- 
tremes of  rain  and  sand-storm,  heat  and  cold, 
hunger  and  thirst,  and  the  fortunes  of  war  were 
but  common  episodes  in  the  day's  work.  The 
Arabs  of  Tripoli  treated  them  with  the  greatest 
respect;  not  once  were  they  jostled  by  the  passing 
many.  Yet  these  nomads,  stoical  as  they  were, 
seemed  by  their  guarded  glance,  not  altogether 
at  ease  thus  removed  from  their  desert  trails,  and 
they  viewed  many  things  with  simple  curiosity. 

Such  were  these  desert  children  who  strode  on 
ahead  of  me.  Up  one  street,  down  another,  past 
the  Mosque  of  Dragut,  the  Mediterranean  free- 
booter, then  up  my  own  street,  the  Arbar-Arsat. 
Here  they  were  hailed  by  the  one-eyed  dealer  in 
goods  from  the  Sudan. 

Twice  I  felt  sure  they  had  noticed  me.  It  was 
now  high  noon  and  the  siesta  time  found  us  the 
only  occupants  of  the  sun-baked  street.  I  was 
too  near  them  to  turn  back,  and  as  I  neared  the 

[92] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

little  booth  where  they  had  stopped  their  barter- 
ing for  an  instant  they  turned  their  shifty  eyes  upon 
me  with  a  look  that  informed  me  that  my  morn- 
ing's work  with  them  was  at  an  end. 

Late  that  afternoon  I  joined  Riley  and  the  rest 
at  the  Turkish  garden,  and  as  we  sat  about  one 
of  the  tables  I  recounted  the  morning's  episode. 

"Yes,"  he  remarked  dryly,  "Salam  told  me 
that  when  marketing  in  the  Suk-el-Turc  this 
morning  he  noticed  you  following  them.  I  sent 
him  after  you  with  some  good  advice,  but  you  had 
gone.  Why,  man,  you  don't  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  those  beggars,  who  can  trail  a 
camel  after  a  sand-storm  has  passed  over  his 
tracks  and  who  can  scent  an  enemy  almost  before 
he  pokes  his  nose  over  the  horizon,  failed  to  de- 
tect you  chasing  after  them  in  full  sight — eh  ? 
They  are  Asgars,  and  what's  more,  they're 
Senusi." 

The  Senusi  were  the  most  powerful  and  fanat- 
ical sect  in  Islam.  Three-quarters  of  a  century 
ago  this  powerful  fraternity  was  founded  by  a 
sheik  of  that  name,  having  for  his  end  the  purify- 
ing of  Moslemism  and  the  extermination  of  the 
infidel.  Tripoli,  and  Bengazi,  down  the  coast, 
were  at  one  time  the  centres  of  his  field  of  opera- 

[93] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

tions;  but  now  Wadai,  in  the  Central  Sudan,  is  its 
headquarters.  The  Senusi,  so  far  as  I  know, 
wear  nothing  by  which  they  may  be  distinguished 
as  do  many  of  the  other  Mohammedan  sects,  and 
every  member  is  sworn  to  secrecy. 

Its  influence  is  so  powerful,  yet  so  intangible, 
that  it  is  a  difficult  influence  for  the  invading 
Christian  nations  to  deal  with,  as  France  has 
found  to  her  cost.  To  the  Senusi  has  been  attrib- 
uted the  cause  of  some  of  the  most  violent  up- 
risings and  oppositions  against  the  invasion  of 
the  French  in  the  Sahara.  Not  only  the  Asgars, 
but  the  Kelowi  are  strong  adherents  of  this  sect, 
particularly  those  residing  in  Air  and  Ghat.  It 
is  said  that  the  plot  against  the  Flatters  Expedi- 
tion has  been  laid  at  the  door  of  the  sect. 

*'How  did  you  know  they  were  in  town?"  I 
continued. 

"Why,  half  of  Tripoli  knows  it.  Tuaregs 
enter  a  suk  or  town  for  one  of  three  reasons — to 
trade,  to  buy  camels,  or  to  spy  out  information 
regarding  an  outgoing  caravan.  Generally  they 
don't  bring  enough  stuff  to  load  down  a  month- 
old  camel,  and  they  certainly  don't  pay  Tripoli 
prices  for  camels,  when  they  can  lift  them  on  the 
trail.     So  draw  your  conclusions,  as  the  caravan 

[94] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

men  and  merchants  draw  theirs.  These  Asgars 
will  probably  hang  around  the  Suk  over  market 
day  or  perhaps  longer,  keeping  an  eye  on  the 
number  of  camels  purchased,  and  loaf  around 
the  rope  shops  and  other  places  of  caravan  out- 
fitters, picking  up  any  stray  bit  of  gossip  which 
may  drift  their  way.  Of  course,  they  may  be 
honest,  but  the  chances  are  even.  Don't  repeat 
your  game  of  this  morning  with  Senusi  Tuaregs," 
continued  my  friend,  as  we  parted  at  the  Street 
of  the  Milk  Sellers'  Market. 

The  following  morning,  before  the  sunlight  on 
the  neighboring  minarets  and  housetops  had 
changed  from  rose  to  gold,  found  me  at  the  Arab 
shop  in  the  Suk-el-Turc.  There,  in  a  dark 
corner  on  a  pile  of  old  silks,  lay  the  long  Tuareg 
teleks  [daggers]. 

*'  Gadesh  .'^"  I  inquired.  The  Tripoline  named 
his  price,  and  I  took  the  coveted  weapons  back 
to  my  lokanda. 

The  dagger  is  the  Tuareg's  main  weapon,  and 
has  two  unique  characteristics.  Attached  to  its 
scabbard  is  a  broad  leather  ring  through  which 
are  passed  the  left  hand  and  wrist;  the  knife  lies 
flat  against  the  inner  side  of  the  arm,  its  handle 
grasped  by  the  hand,  for  the  Tuareg  evidently 

[95] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

goes  on  the  principle  that  "a  knife  in  the  hand  is 
worth  two  in  the  belt." 

Strangely  paradoxical  to  all  the  symbolism 
which  plays  so  important  a  part  in  the  religion 
of  the  orthodox  Mohammedan,  is  the  character 
of  the  telek  handle,  for  it  is  in  the  form  of  the 
cross,  the  symbol  of  the  hated  Nazarenes.  A 
number  of  theories  have  been  advanced  by  way 
of  explanation,  but  the  most  reasonable  and  sub- 
stantiated seems  to  be  that  it  is  a  relic  of  the  time 
when  this  people  were  Christians,  during  the 
Roman  era,  before  they  were  driven  from  their 
more  northern  habitations  by  the  Arabs.  The 
cross  is  also  found  in  Tuareg  ornaments,  and  in 
the  handle  shapes  of  their  two-edged  war  swords. 

I  would  venture  an  opinion,  however,  that 
these  weapons  have  no  religious  significance 
whatever  to  the  Tuareg,  but  were  patterned  after 
the  cross-hilted,  double-edged  swords  of  the  in- 
vading Crusaders,  for  not  only  did  the  Crusader 
land  on  the  heights  of  Carthage  and  other  points 
along  the  North  African  coast,  but  for  a  number 
of  years  Tripoli  itself  was  occupied  by  the 
Knights  of  St.  John,  who  came  in  touch  there 
with  the  nomadic  desert  tribes.  They  must  have 
left  many  a  graven  crucifix,  sword,  shield,  and 

[96] 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

rosary  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  as  part  of  the 
loot  of  the  Moslem  soldiery  when  the  defenders 
of  the  cross  were  driven  from  Tripoli  by  Soliman 
the  Magnificent. 

The  one-eyed  Sudanese  dealer  had  bearded 
these  tiger-cats  in  their  dens  in  the  oasis  and  had 
come  back  to  the  town  with  a  bow  and  quiver 
full  of  their  steel-pointed  arrows  and  two  goat- 
skin pillows.  The  last  were  ornamented  with 
black  and  red  dye,  and  from  their  surfaces  small 
strips  and  squares  had  been  cut  out,  producing  an 
attractive  geometric  design.  These  leathers,  filled 
with  straw  or  grass,  serve  the  Tuaregs  as  cushions 
when  on  camel-back,  or  as  pillows  in  their  tents. 
The  arrows  were  wonderfully  balanced,  having 
a  delicate  shaft  of  bamboolike  wood,  and  the 
vicious-looking  barbed  points  were  beautifully 
designed.  It  is  said  that  the  Tuaregs  do  not 
poison  their  arrows,  but  the  one-eyed  Sudanese 
handled  them  carefully  and  eautioned  me  against 
pricking  myself  with  the  barbs. 

Later  in  the  morning  found  me  in  the  Suk, 
camera  in  hand.  This  time  I  risked  the  sun  and 
substituted  for  my  pith  helmet  a  straw  hat,  to 
draw  less  attention  to  myself.  For  an  hour  I 
meandered  about,  searching  through  the  narrow 

[97] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

channel  ways  of  the  Suk,  banked  with  produce 
and  handicraft  articles  of  town  and  country. 

I  had  almost  despaired  of  again  setting  eyes  on 
the  Asgars,  when,  as  I  rounded  the  tent  of  a 
dealer  in  goat-skin  water  buckets,  there  were  the 
Tuaregs — three  of  them — all  squatting  before  the 
tattered  tent  of  a  Black,  eating  ravenously  of 
roasted  fodder  corn. 

This  time  I  would  let  them  cross  my  path,  and 
I  waited  unobserved  under  the  shadow  of  the 
wall  of  the  Haifa  Suk. 

Having  gorged  themselves,  they  crossed  the 
market.  I  anticipated  them  first  at  one  point, 
then  at  another.  Either  they  turned  aside  before 
reaching  me,  their  faces  were  in  the  shadow,  or 
some  Arab  exasperatingly  blocked  my  view. 
Then  they  headed  for  the  camel  market,  so  I  hur- 
ried by  a  circuitous  route  and  arrived  begrimed 
and  perspiring  at  the  farther  end  of  a  long  line  of 
camels.  Examining  a  camel  here  and  there, 
they  gradually  worked  their  way  toward  me. 

The  third  Tuareg  was  evidently  a  serf,  for  he 
wore  a  white  litham.  He  carried  a  long,  grace- 
fully shaped  lance,  which  I  would  have  liked  to 
buy,  but  an  experience  of  trying  to  buy  a 
hauberk  from  a  RiiBBan  in  Morocco  had  taught 

[98] 


"  From  the  near  side  of  a  camel,  I  took  the  picture 


THE  MASKED  TUAREGS 

me  better  than  to  attempt,  as  a  Christian,  to  buy 
a  weapon  offhand  from  men  who  live  by  the 
sword.  A  few  yards  more  and  they  would  be 
near  enough.  The  sun  flooded  full  upon  them, 
and  their  amulets  containing  their  charms  dan- 
gled and  sparkled  in  the  light.  Two  were  intent 
upon  a  camel  to  the  right;  the  other,  as  he  came 
straight  toward  me,  turned  his  head  for  an  instant 
to  the  left.  Stepping  quietly  from  the  near  side 
of  the  camel,  I  took  the  picture,  and  knew  that 
the  "white  man's  magic"  had  not  failed  me. 
Turning  my  head  quickly,  I  directed  my  gaze 
thoughtfully  afar  off. 

"TJgurra!"  snarled  one  of  the  Tuaregs,  and  he 
menacingly  flipped  from  his  left  arm  the  fold  of 
his  haik,  revealing  on  his  wrist,  just  below  his 
dagger  band,  a  heavy  stone  of  jade  or  serpentine, 
an  ornament,  it  is  claimed,  they  use  in  fighting. 
The  other  two  turned  instantly,  and  for  a 
moment  all  the  ferocity  of  their  animal  natures 
seemed  to  leap  through  their  eyes.  Their  gaze 
shifted  from  mine  to  the  mysterious  black  box 
beneath  my  arm. 

"Ugurra!" 

Then  they  turned  and  glided  stealthily  along  their 
way  out  into  the  desert  from  whence  they  came. 

[99] 


CHAPTER  SIX 

the  discoveky  op  the  united  states  frigate 
*'  Philadelphia" 

FROM  time  immemorial  the  Mediterranean 
has  been  the  arena  of  naval  strife  and 
piracy.  Men  chained  to  the  galley  thwarts,  ex- 
hausted and  broken  in  spirit,  have  suffered  under 
the  heat  and  cold,  and  writhed  in  anguish  under 
the  lash  of  Pagan,  Mohammedan,  and  Christian. 
But  against  the  long  horizon  of  its  history — from 
the  American  view-point — one  wave  looms  very 
high,  on  whose  crest  is  a  burning  frigate,  and  high 
above  her  mast-heads  we  trace  through  the  saf- 
fron smoke  clouds  a  name — Decatur. 

On  the  eastern  end  of  Tripoli's  water  front, 
formerly  one  long  line  of  fortifications,  rises  the 
Bashaw's  Castle,  its  thick  walls  towering  over  the 
harbor  some  ninety  feet  above  their  sea-washed 
foundations. 

By  the  courtesy  of  Redjed  Pasha  I  saw  some- 
thing of  the  interior  of  this  ancient  pile,  which 

[100] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

enclosed  within  its  walls  a  little  village  of  its  own. 
Passing  from  large  open  courts  of  elaborately 
colored  tiles,  through  labyi'inthine  secret  ways  to 
the  prison,  I  mounted  its  high  terraced  ramparts. 
Rounding  over  me,  the  great  dome  of  unbroken 
blue  stretched  away  to  meet  the  darker  mirror 
surface  of  water. 

To  the  north-east,  parallel  to  the  shore,  extends 
a  dangerous  line  of  rocks,  now  poking  their 
jagged  surfaces  through  the  dark  blue  of  the  bay, 
now  disappearing  under  its  waters.  It  was  on 
these  hidden  crusted  tops,  three  miles  east  of  the 
harbor  entrance,  that  the  grating  keel  of  the 
United  States  frigate  Philadelphia  first  warned 
Captain  Bainbridge  that  they  were  aground.  The 
guns  having  been  hove  overboard,  her  defence- 
less condition  compelled  her  surrender  that  after- 
noon, October  31,  1803. 

Much  of  my  time  in  Tripoli  during  the  summer 
of  1904  was  spent  in  efforts  to  obtain  data  relating 
to  the  capture  and  destruction  of  the  Philadelphia 
by  Lieutenant  Decatur  in  command  of  the  ketch 
Intrepid — not  only  for  its  local  significance,  but 
also  with  a  view  to  locating  the  wreck.  I  ques- 
tioned representatives  of  the  European  govern- 
ments  in   the   town,    waded   through   countless 

[101] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

files  of  official  documents,  dusty  consular  reports, 
and  private  journals,  but  for  many  weeks  my 
search  proved  fruitless.  Hearing  finally  that  in 
the  dibriamim  [local  records]  of  the  Jewish 
synagogue  an  attache  of  the  French  consulate 
had  once  found  certain  valuable  historical  data, 
I  determined,  if  possible,  to  investigate  these 
archives.  Consequently,  a  meeting  with  Rabbi 
Mordecai  Kohen,  librarian  of  the  synagogue,  was 
arranged  by  the  acting  British  consul,  Mr. 
Alfred  Dickson. 

On  July  14,  in  company  with  Tayar,  a  young 
interpreter,  I  found  the  rabbi  buried  in  a  pile 
of  old  books  in  the  library  of  the  synagogue. 
Touching  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  he  welcomed 
us ;  then  brought  from  a  dark  corner  a  musty  old 
book  on  magic  and  science  and  a  glass  sphere  on 
which  he  had  pasted  paper  continents.  These 
proved  to  be  his  two  greatest  treasures,  which  he 
exhibited  with  all  the  unconcealed  glee  and  pride 
of  a  child.  Then,  drawing  from  a  shelf  a  small 
volume  and  a  manuscript,  he  led  the  way  to  the 
British  consulate,  where,  in  company  with  Mr. 
Dickson,  we  seated  ourselves  about  a  table  in  a 
cool  north  room,  and  the  rabbi  proceeded  to 
decipher  the  brief  facts. 

[  102] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

He  had  donned  his  best  attire,  consisting  of  a 
pair  of  yellow  slippers,  an  under  layer  of  loose 
Oriental  trousers,  and  several  vests,  covered  by  a 
dilapidated  European  overcoat,  which  he  wore 
only  on  occasion.  Surmounting  all  this  was  his 
greasy  fez,  wrapped  in  a  tightly  twisted  blue 
turban,  which  he  removed  only  on  occasion  and 
never  unwound ;  turban  and  fez  by  force  of  habit 
had  become  a  sort  of  composite  capital  which 
adorned  his  partially  bald  head.  His  deepset 
eyes  cast  furtive  glances  from  time  to  time  as  he 
read  first  from  the  small  volume,  then  from  the 
manuscript. 

The  book  proved  to  be  a  modern  Turkish  pub- 
lication in  Arabic  entitled  a  "History  of  Tripoli 
in  the  West,"  and  briefly  mentioned  the  circum- 
stance of  the  burning  of  an  American  war-ship 
in  the  harbor.  The  manuscript  was  a  local 
history  compiled  by  himself  from  the  papers  and 
journals  of  an  old  rabbi,  Abram  Halfoom,  who 
had  lived  in  Tripoli  most  of  his  life  and  died  in 
Jerusalem  some  eighty  years  ago.  It  contained 
information  covering  the  period  of  our  war  with 
Tripoli  and  revealed  a  few  new  details  concerning 
the  Philadelphia.  Transmitted  through  three 
interpreters,  I  failed  to  get  at  the  real  Hebraic 

[103] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

point  of  view  of  the  writer.  It  briefly  stated, 
however,  that  Yusef  Bashaw  was  a  bad  ruler, 
had  equipped  a  number  of  corsairs,  and  that  the 
crews  of  the  captured  vessels  were  sold  like  sheep. 
His  captains,  Zurrig,  Dghees,  Trez,  Romani,  and 
El-Mograbi,  set  sail  from  Tripoli  and  shortly 
sighted  an  American  vessel.  Zurrig  left  the 
others  and  daringly  approached  the  ship,  annoy- 
ing her  purposely  to  decoy  her  across  the  shoals. 
She  stranded,  but  fired  on  the  other  vessels 
until  her  ammunition  gave  out,  whereupon  the 
Moslems  pillaged  her.  The  Ameriean  Consul  * 
was  very  much  disheartened  and  tried  to  con- 
clude arrangements  similar  to  those  recently 
made  between  the  Bashaw  and  the  Swedish 
Consul;  but  such  an  enormous  tribute  was  de- 
manded that  no  terms  could  be  reached,  so  by 
order  of  the  Bashaw  the  vessel  was  burned.^ 
From  time  to  time  the  corsairs  brought  in  several 
American  merchantmen.  Soon  the  American 
squadron    arrived,    blockaded    the    harbor    for 

*  Rabbi  Halfoom  evidently  mistook  Mr.  Nissen  for  the  American 
consul,  but  we  had  none  at  the  time.  Mr.  Nissen  was  the  Danish 
consul,  and  voluntarily  acted  as  ^ent  for  the  American  prisoners, 
and  happened  to  occupy  the  house  formerly  used  as  the  United 
States  Consulate. 

*  This,  of  course,  was  an  erroneous  idea.  It  may  have  been 
purposely  circulated  through  the  town,  particularly  among  the  in- 
habitants other  than  Mohammedans. 

[104] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

twenty  days,  and  bombarded  the  Tripolitans,  who 
returned  their  fire  and  did  great  damage. 

Such  were  the  first  gleanings  of  my  search 
for  local  traditions  concerning  this  event  which 
made  such  a  profound  impression  in  both  Eu- 
rope and  America,  and  which  Lord  Nelson 
said  was  "the  most  bold  and  daring  act  of  the 
age." 

More  specific  results  came  through  a  chance 
acquaintance.  During  my  wanderings  through 
the  maze  of  narrow  alleys  within  the  walls  of 
Tripoli  I  fell  in  with  an  old  Arab,  Hadji-el- 
Ouachi,  from  whose  combination  of  lingua 
Franca  and  broken  English  I  gathered  much 
information.  During  one  drowsy  siesta  time, 
as  we  sat  over  the  muddy  Turkish  coffee  in  the 
shady  spacious  court  of  my  lokanda,  I  questioned 
him  regarding  the  lost  frigate. 

El-Ouachi  stimulated  his  recollections  with  a 
pinch  of  snuff. 

"There  is  a  tradition  among  my  people,"  he 
said,  "that  many  years  ago  there  came  to  Tripoli 
a  big  American  markab  harbi  [ship  of  war],  and 
when  I  was  young,  like  you,  Arfi,  one  Hadji-Ali, 
an  old  man,  told  me  that  the  Americans  came 
at  night  and  burned  her  in  the  harbor  and  she 

[105] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

sank  by  the  Lazaretto  near  the  end  of  the  Mole 
toward  the  sea." 

"But  are  there  no  old  men  now  among  you 
who  saw  this  ship?"  I  asked,  by  way  of  testing 
the  accuracy  of  his  knowledge. 

'*Lah!"  He  shook  his  head.  '* For  that  was 
in  the  days  of  my  fathers.  Then  the  Arabs  were 
a  strong  people !  But  I  have  a  friend,  old  Hadji- 
Mohammed  Gabroom,  whose  father  often  told 
him  about  it.  If  we  find  him  now  at  his  coffee 
off  the  Suk-el-Turc,  he  may  tell  us.  Shall  we  go  .^ " 

Passing  out  into  the  hot  glare  of  the  early  after- 
noon, a  few  minutes  walk  brought  us  to  the  Suk, 
where,  just  before  one  enters  the  Street  of  the 
Tailors,  and  the  shops  of  the  workers  in  silver 
and  brass,  we  came  to  a  small  coffee  booth. 
Here,  back  in  the  farthest  corner,  wrapped  in  the 
numerous  folds  of  his  brown  baracan,  squatted 
Hadji-Mohammed  Gabroom,  a  dried-up,  sinewy 
old  man,  stroking  his  scraggly  beard  and  sucking 
at  a  long  pipe-stem.  Looking  out  from  under 
the  heavy  overhanging  brows,  and  almost  lost  in 
the  wrinkles  of  his  tanned,  sun-parched  face,  a 
pair  of  black  beady  eyes  glittered  like  two  sand 
beetles.  After  several  salaams  we  drank  of 
proffered  coffee  and  El-Ouachi  stated  our  mis- 

[106] 


We  came  to  a  heaj)  of  .    .    .   rust-eaten  cannon 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

slon.  The  fascinating  little  eyes  glowed  like 
live  coals,  as  with  almost  a  look  of  hatred  they 
searched  me  through.  For  a  moment  the  fire 
died  out  of  them  and  the  old  man  seemed  to  lose 
the  sense  of  his  surroundings  as  though  groping 
in  the  long-forgotten  past.  Then,  in  the  slow, 
measured  manner  of  the  Arab  chronicler,  he 
spoke : 

*'Many  times  has  my  father  told  me  the  story 
thus:  'In  the  year  of  the  Hegira,  1218,  during 
awasit  [the  second  ten  days  of  the  month]  of  the 
month  Rajah,  my  son,  the  sails  of  strange  ships 
are  seen  to  the  north  where  the  Khafkan  and 
Khafikin  [the  eastern  and  western  horizons] 
meet.  The  amtar  [rains]  have  begun,  the  nights 
are  cold,  and  few  people  walk  abroad.  In  that 
time,  there  comes  from  Bengazi  way  an  American 
ship,  which  chases  a  felucca  with  one  mast  gone. 
The  Arab  Rais  [captain]  knows  many  passages 
through  the  reefs  and  invites  the  big  ship  to 
follow  where  the  water  is  shallow.  Allah  wills! 
and  the  big  ship  is  aground. 

***A11  the  corsairs,  feluccas,  and  many  small 
boats  filled  with  armed  Arabs  swarm  around  her, 
as  on  the  Suk-el-Thalat  when  the  market  is  held. 
The  Americans  fight  with  their  small  guns  and 

[107] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

wound  six  of  our  people,  but  the  Arabs  are 
too  many.  Soon  they  capture  the  ship  and  bring 
many  Nazarenes  to  the  castle,  and  it  is  a  great 
tarab  [jubilee]  in  Tripoli.  Yussef  Bashaw  puts  the 
officers  in  a  dungeon  in  the  middle  of  the  Castle, 
under  the  terrace.  The  sailors  are  bastinadoed 
and  driven  like  the  black  mamluks  [slaves] ;  they 
are  empty  of  wallets,  apparent  of  poverty  and 
destitution,  with  no  means  of  sustenance  save  the 
loaves  of  black  bread  given  them  by  their  mas- 
ters. In  the  cold  water  for  many  days  these 
Nazarenes  shovel  sand  from  a  wreck,  by  the  Suk- 
el-Thalat,  build  up  the  broken  places  in  the 
Castle,  and  carry  heavy  loads. 

*"The  Arabs  bring  the  big  ship  from  the  rocks 
of  Bogaz-el-Kebir  [theBig  Harbor]  andanchorher 
off  the  Fort  and  Lazaretto.  While  the  people  loot 
her,  from  his  small  boat,  one  Bushagour,  an  Arab 
sailor,  sees  a  white  thing  in  a  big  gun,  and  finds 
two  bags  of  silver  medj  idles  [probably  Spanish 
dollars] ;  he  puts  them  back  quickly.  When  the 
night  is  black  he  takes  again  the  money  in  his 
boat,  buries  it  in  the  sand  near  where  lies  the 
I^azaretto,  and  goes  back  to  the  big  ship,  where  he 
is  a  guard ;  three  days  later  he  buys  unto  himself 

two  houses. 

[108] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

"'We  bring  the  guns  of  the  Nazarenes  from 
the  water,  and  make  the  ship  look  Hke  new,  and 
put  our  corsairs  close  around  her.  She  lies  off 
the  Castle  in  the  harbor  many  days,  with  the  red 
crescent  flag  of  our  people  floating  over  her. 
Those  who  dwell  in  the  gardens  outside  the  city 
and  in  the  wadan  take  little  boats  to  look  at  her. 
At  Ramadan  they  unfurl  the  green  flag  of  the 
Prophet  from  the  mast-head,  and  her  guns  tell 
the  faithful  that  the  days  of  fasting  are  over  and 
they  are  to  prepare  for  the  feast  of  Beiram. 

'"Yussef  Bashaw  asks  much  money  from  this 
new  nation,  but  Sheik  Hadji  Mohammed  Bet-el- 
Mal  tells  Yussef  that  these  American  people  will 
not  let  him  keep  the  ship  long.  Yussef  Karamauli 
only  laughs  and  tells  the  Sheik  he  talks  like  a 
woman.  Yussef  Bashaw  feels  very  safe  because 
the  town  is  full  of  armed  Arabs  and  all  the  forts 
and  corsairs  are  manned,  with  guns  loaded.  I, 
my  son,  am  stationed  at  the  Bab-el-Bahah  [the 
Gate  by  the  Sea],  and  sometimes  at  the  Inner 
Gate  by  the  Castle.  I  keep  my  best  flints  in  my  gun 
and  leave  its  lock-cover  in  my  house.  We  feel  so 
safe  that  only  ten  Arabs  are  left  to  guard  the  ship. 

"'Many  days  pass  and  the  days  of  Rama- 
dan are  over.     In  awasit  of  the  month  Dzul 

[109] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

ca*da  of  the  Hegira  1219  we  fear  an  attack,  for 
we  see  strange  sails  when  the  sun  is  high;  I  am 
a  special  guard  at  the  gate  of  the  Castle.  One 
evening,  shortly  after  the  sun  has  gone  down  in 
the  land  of  the  west,  there  is  seen  a  ketch  standing 
into  the  harbor.  We  think  she  brings  goods  from 
Malta,  but  on  her  deck  are  American  men  dressed 
like  the  Maltese  and  her  hold  is  full  of  men. 
They  know  the  gates  of  the  city  are  shut,  and  that 
the  Rais-el-Kebir  [Captain  of  the  Port]  will  not 
give  them  practique  [quarantine  clearance]  until 
the  morning.  Long  after  the  muezzin  has  called 
the  faithful  to  prayer,  and  the  city  sleeps,  out 
of  the  stillness  of  the  darkness  a  great  cry  comes 
over  the  water.  They  attack  and  slay  certain  of 
our  guards  in  the  big  ship,  the  rest  flee  in  fear  for 
themselves.  They  start  fires  with  gourds  and 
bottles  filled  with  spirit  and  oil.  Suddenly  flames 
like  the  tongues  of  evil  spirits  rise  from  the 
American  ship.  These  Americans  have  wise 
heads;  when  they  lose  their  ship,  they  lose  it  to 
everybody. 

'"Our  town  is  soon  in  great  confusion.  Men 
cry  aloud,  our  women  screech,  and  the  great 
cannons  from  the  Castle  ramparts  boom.  Many 
think  the  Castle  is  fallen.     Everybody  runs  into 

[110] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

the  streets  with  his  gun ;  some  rush  into  the  gar- 
dens at  the  back  of  the  town,  only  to  meet  many 
coming  in  from  the  country  and  Bedawi  village 
camps.  I  climb  on  a  housetop  better  to  see  this 
matter,  and  with  me  is  old  Mohammed-el- 
Ouayti.  Soon  many  hundreds  of  people  pour  in 
from  the  Black  village  at  Sciara-el-Sciut  and 
from  Tajura  and  Zanzour.  Below  us  the  people 
are  rushing  through  under  the  Inner  Gate  of  the 
Bab-e\-Bahah,  crowding  to  the  water  front  to 
meet  the  enemy,  like  a  great  wadi  rushing  to 
the  sea. 

" '  Together  we  watch  the  fire  of  the  ship.  She 
begins  to  burn  first  in  the  middle;  then  much 
powder  explodes.  The  great  smoke  cloud  spreads 
its  wings  like  some  evil  bird  over  the  harbor  and 
soars  to  the  upper  regions  of  the  darkness,  its  red 
talons  always  taking  something  from  the  face  of 
the  earth,  which  it  carries  toward  the  outer  sea. 
The  Nazarenes,  fearing  for  themselves,  turn  back 
in  flight,  and  we  watch  their  ketch  disappear  in 
the  darkness  through  Bogaz  Jeraba  out  to  the 
Middle  Sea.  Soon  the  harbor  is  light  as  day  and 
redder  than  the  sands  of  the  Sah-ra  [Sahara] 
when  the  sun  is  low  in  the  west.  When  the 
breath  of  Allah  blows  back  now  and  again,  the 

[111] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

big  tongues  change  their  course  and  Hck  out  at 
the  Castle,  making  its  walls  and  ramparts  red 
as  blood,  like  some  monster  dragon  as  it  spits 
back  its  fire  guns. 

'*  *For  three  days  the  ship  burns  and  the  sky  at 
night  is  like  this  brass  on  the  handle  of  my 
khanijar  [dagger].  Garflas  afar  off  on  the  desert 
see  it — ^yea,  even  plenty  of  people  see  it  from  be- 
yond the  Jebel  Tarhuna,  Fassato,  and  the  farther 
Jebel,  four  days'  journey  as  the  camel  travels. 
For  many  years  after  this  she  yields  her  iron  and 
brass  to  the  Arab  and  Maltese  fisherman;  for 
everything  that  is  an  object  of  search  resteth 
not.  Such  is  the  story  of  the  Nazarene  ship. 
Know,  then,  what  I  tell  thee,  my  son,  and  keep 
it  in  thy  memory.    Allah  wills !   Allah  is  great ! ' "  ^ 

The  old  hadji  tapped  the  kief  out  of  his  pipe, 
slid  off  the  seat  into  his  slippers,  and  reefing  up 
his  skirts  about  him,  mounted  his  small  donkey 
and  disappeared  down  the  Suk. 

*  It  has  been  a  much-mooted  question  whether  it  would  have 
been  possible  to  take  the  Philadelphia  from  the  harbor.  Decatur, 
however,  had  no  choice.  "  Proceed  to  Tripoli  in  company  with  the 
Siren  under  Lieutenant  Stewart,"  read  Preble's  orders,  "enter  that 
harbor  in  the  night,  board  the  Philadelphia,  burn  her,  make  good 
your  retreat  with  the  Intrepid."  One  thing  is  certain,  the  chances 
were  evidently  against  the  success  of  such  an  undertaking,  as  must 
be  evident  to  any  one  who  has  actually  been  over  the  ground.  I  do 
not  believe  it  would  have  been  possible  under  the  circumstances. 

[112] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

In  response  to  my  inquiry  in  regard  to  the 
houses  bought  by  Bushagour,  I  followed  El- 
Ouachi  as  he  clumped  along  through  the  Suk-el- 
Turc.  Reaching  its  northern  end  we  passed  east 
of  the  Arch  of  Marcus  Aurelius  and  ascended  the 
street  which  follows  the  base  of  the  remaining 
fortifications,  known  as  the  Battery,  between  the 
Castle  and  the  Molehead.  We  soon  came  to  an 
iron  heap  of  discarded  rust-eaten  cannon.  On 
one  of  these  El-Ouachi  seated  himself.  Above 
him  was  a  simple  broad  expanse  of  sunlit 
wall,  broken  only  by  its  arched  portal  and 
the  edges  of  its  crenelated  profile  vibrating  in 
the  intense  heat  of  an  African  summer  after- 
noon. 

"These  old  guns,  Arfi,"  he  said  as  he  shifted 
his  baracan  over  his  left  shoulder,  "w^ere  on  this 
fortress  in  the  days  of  my  fathers,  and  threw  their 
iron  balls  at  the  American  frigate  as  she  lay  off 
the  Castle.  After  she  burned,  some  of  her  guns 
were  mounted  on  these  very  walls  and  used 
against  an  American  fleet." 

He  presently  led  the  way  a  short  distance  up  a 
narrow  street,  stopping  in  front  of  two  plain- 
walled  houses.  Years  of  accumulated  rubbish 
had  perceptibly  raised  the  level  of  their  thresholds 

[113] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  the  dirt  dado  of  the  outer  walls,  so  that  to 
enter  one  must  descend. 

"These  houses,  Arfi,"  he  continued,  "this  one 
with  the  hand  print  over  the  door  to  keep  off  the 
*evil  eye,'  and  the  one  next,  Bushagour  bought 
with  the  two  bags  of  money.  Within  their  walls 
each  has  a  large  court  and  good  rooms.  His 
children's  children  live  here  now,  but  we  cannot 
enter,  for  the  women  are  there,  and  these  people 
like  not  the  Christians.  Some  years  ago  there 
was  a  great  explosion  in  this  fortification  where 
the  powder  was  stored,  the  walls  of  the  whole 
town  were  shaken,  part  of  this  fortress  was 
broken  in  many  places,  houses  fell  and  people 
died,  but  these  fell  not." 

As  we  reached  the  Bab-el-Bahah,  El-Ouachi 
pointed  his  lean,  henna-stained  finger  in  the 
direction  of  the  remains  of  the  Mole. 

^'Beyond  the  Molehead,  Arfi,  the  tradition  of  my 
people  says,  the  wreck  of  the  big  American  corsair 
lies.''  * 

Following  this  clue,  early  the  next  morning, 
July  12,  before  the  usual  forenoon  breeze  could 

*  On  my  return  to  the  United  States  I  investigated  the  original 
data  relating  to  the  capture  and  burning  of  the  Philadelphia,  and 
further  corroborated  the  Arab  tradition  from  original  and  official 
sources;  from  the  reports  of  Commodore  Preble,  who  issued  the 
orders  to  destroy  the  frigate;   Lieutenant  Decatur  and  Midshipman 

[114] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

blur  the  glassy  surface  of  the  harbor,  I  was  at 
the  sailors'  coffee-house  near  the  boat  builders' 
ways,  where  by  arrangement  I  met  Riley,  Mr. 
Venables,  an  English  missionary,  and  a  Maltese 
fisherman.  Equipped  with  grapples,  lines,  and  a 
maria  [a  bucket  with  a  glass  bottom]  we  seated 
ourselves  on  the  dirty  thwarts  of  the  clumsy 
craft,  and  were  pulled  to  the  vicinity  where  Arab 
tradition  said  the  wreck  of  the  frigate  lay.  Using 
the  maria,  for  a  light  breeze  had  ruflSed  the  placid 
surface  of  the  water,  the  boat  was  rowed  slowly 
over  the  ground,  describing  large  spirals,  as  from 
time  to  time  we  set  new  starting-points.  As  I 
eagerly  gazed  through  the  clear  glass  into  the 
transparent  depths,  all  the  wonders  of  a  sea 
garden  passed  beneath  me;  dark  violet  spots  of 
ragged  rocks  lost  themselves  in  patches  of  light 
sea-green  sand,  which  threw  into  stronger  relief 
an  occasional  shell-fish  or  schools  of  delicate 
little  sea-horses.  Beautiful  forms  of  sponges, 
coral,  anemone,  and  sea  mosses  opened  and  shut 
or  gracefully  waved,  disturbed  by  some  under- 
current  or   one   of   the   shining   iridescent  fish, 

Morris,  who  carried  them  out,  and  [through  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  James 
Barnes]  from  the  journal  of  William  Ray,  one  of  the  imprisoned 
crew  of  the  Philadelphia,  who  was  in  Tripoli  at  that  time,  and  who, 
imder  orders  of  his  Tripoline  captors,  assisted  in  trying  to  clear  the 
wreck  of  the  Philadelphia  after  she  was  burned. 

[115] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

which,  like  some  gorgeous  spectrum,  vibrated  in 
unison  with  the  grasses,  or  turning  upward  its 
scaly  side,  darted  like  a  shaft  of  silvery  light 
through  the  green  and  opalescent  depths  below. 

In  less  than  an  hour  my  search  was  rewarded 
by  seeing  the  broken  ends  of  the  great  ribs  of  a 
vessel  protruding  through  dull-colored  eel-grass. 
I  noticed  that  this  grass  seemed  to  follow  the  line 
of  the  ribs,  and  carefully  noted  its  character,  to 
further  aid  me  in  my  search.  Examining  these 
closely,  no  doubt  was  left  in  my  mind  but  that 
they  belonged  to  a  large  vessel,  and  I  ordered  the 
boatman  to  let  fall  the  rough  stone  which  served 
as  an  anchor.  The  lead  gave  us  two  and  a  half 
and  three  fathoms. 

Hastily  undressing,  we  dived  several  times. 
Riley  first  succeeded  in  buoying  the  spot  by  going 
down  with  the  line  and  slipping  it  over  one  of  the 
ribs.  While  on  the  bottom  I  carefully  examined 
the  timbers.  These  were  honeycombed  in  cer- 
tain parts  in  a  peculiar  way.  The  continual 
sea  swash  of  a  century  seemed  to  have  made  its 
inroads  at  the  softest  places,  and  they  gave  every 
appearance,  in  form,  of  partially  burned  stumps. 
The  wood  seemed  almost  as  hard  as  iron.  Much 
of  it  was  enclosed  in  a  fossil  crust,  and  only  by 

[116] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

repeated  efforts  I  succeeded  in  breaking  off  a 
small  piece.  The  many  winds  from  the  Desert 
and  the  shifting  shoals  of  sand  had  filled  in  and 
around  the  frigate,  and  her  keel  must  have  lain 
buried  nearly  two  fathoms  deeper  than  the  pres- 
ent sea  bottom.  The  freshening  breeze  made 
further  investigation  impossible;  so  after  taking 
bearings  and  leaving  the  spot  buoyed,  we  re- 
turned to  the  shore,  landing  amid  an  awaiting, 
curious  crowd  of  Turks,  Arabs,  and  Blacks. 

Six  days  later,  through  the  courtesy  and  inter- 
est of  the  officers  of  the  Greek  war-ships  Crete  and 
ParaloSi  a  ship's  cutter  and  machine  boat  with 
divers  were  placed  at  my  disposal.  On  this 
second  expedition  my  principal  object  was  to 
determine  more  carefully  the  size,  position,  and 
location  of  the  wreck,  which  are  given  on  the 
chart  reproduced  on  the  next  page. 

My  third  and  last  expedition  was  on  the  morn- 
ing of  August  3.  The  divers  managed  with  pick 
and  axe  to  break  off  pieces  of  her  fossilized  sides, 
and  from  her  partly  buried  timbers  brought  to 
the  surface  an  eighteen-pound  cannon-ball,^ 
together  with  part  of  the  wood  in  which  it  was 

*  This  solid  shot  corresponded  in  diameter  to  the  bore  of  some  of 
the  discarded  guns  at  the  Battery  and  was  found  in  the  port  side 
forward.    It  is  now  in  the  Naval  Museum  at  Annapolis. 

[117] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

embedded.  The  ball  and  adjoining  wood  were 
completely  incrusted  with  an  inch  of  fossil  matter. 
Several  other  pieces  of  wood  brought  up  con- 


1 


Map  of  the  Town  and  Harbor  of  Tripoli 

A — Position  of  the  Philadelphia  when  attacked  by  Decatur.  Dot  and  dash 
lines  indicate  the  course  of  the  Intrepid  on  entering  and  leaving  the  harbor  Feb- 
ruary 16th,  1804.  Heavy  dotted  Unes  indicate  the  Philadelphia' s  course  as  she 
drifted  after  being  fired. 

B — Present  position  of  the  Philadelphia.    Long  dash  lines  indicate  her  beanngs. 


tained  iron  bolts,  also  copper  nails,  which  prob- 
ably held  down  the  sheeting  below  the  water- 
line  of  her  hull.     There  her  skeleton  timbers  will 

[118] 


THE  FRIGATE  "PHILADELPHIA" 

lie  until  obliterated  by  the  Desert  sand  shoals,  the 
quiet  work  of  the  shell-fish,  and  the  myriad  small 
creatures  of  the  sea. 


[119] 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THE   GREEK   SPONGE    DIVERS 

/^F  Tripoli's  principal  industries  three  stand 
^^  out  pre-eminently — sponge  gathering,  es- 
parto picking,  and  the  trans-Saharan  caravan 
trade  through  which  the  principal  resources  re- 
spectively of  sea,  coast,  and  Desert,  including  the 
Sudan,  are  made  marketable  exports.  Besides 
these,  great  quantities  of  cattle  [in  good  years], 
eggs,  mats,  old  silver,  woollen  cloths,  and  other 
local  products  are  shipped  annually,  going  mainly 
to  Great  Britain,  France,  Turkey,  Italy,  Malta, 
Tunis,  and  Egypt.  One  article  only,  Sudan 
skins,  finds  its  way  to  the  United  States,  which 
supply  depends  upon  the  security  of  the  trade 
routes.  These  skins  go  to  New  York  for  the 
manufacture  of  a  cheap  grade  of  gloves  or  shoes. 
Tripoli  Harbor  affords  better  protection  to 
vessels  than  many  on  the  North  African  coast; 
but  because  of  dangerous  reefs  and  shoals  it 
is  a  most  difficult  harbor  to  enter,  particularly 

[120] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

in  stormy  weather,  for  the  Mediterranean  is  as 
varying  in  her  moods  as  are  those  peoples  who 
inhabit  her  shores.  Under  the  gentle  zephyrs 
and  clear  skies  of  summer  she  is  as  peaceful  as 
Hadji  under  his  awning  in  yonder  Suk;  but  in 
winter,  when,  under  the  spirit  of  the  north  wind, 
she  comes  ripping,  lashing  southward,  foaming 
down  in  a  seething  froth  on  the  reef-lined  shores 
of  Barbary,  she  is  as  wild  and  fanatical  as  some 
mighty  horde  of  Moslems  driven  by  the  spirit  of 
the  Jehad. 

Off  some  of  the  Barbary  ports  vessels  fre- 
quently lie  for  weeks  awaiting  fair  weather 
before  they  can  discharge  their  cargoes,  and  the 
list  of  casualties  for  the  amount  of  shipping  off 
the  North  African  coast  must  be  large.  In  1904, 
543  sailing  vessels  and  271  steamers  entered 
Tripoli  Harbor.  Some  of  the  risks  which  these 
vessels  incur  in  these  waters  may  be  noted  from 
the  following,  which  I  quote  from  two  letters 
received  from  Tripoli.     The  author  writes: 

On  Wednesday,  December  6  [1905]  at  6.25  p.  m.,  we  were 
at  the  Turkish  Club  as  usual.  I  saw  a  rocket  go  up  .  .  .  and 
said,  "There  is  the  S.  S.  Syrian  Prince  .  .  .  expect  me  home 
when  you  see  me"  .  .  .  went  aboard  and  stayed  there  until 
Sunday,  December  10th  .  .  .  threw  overboard  about  620  tons  of 
cargo  and  got  her  off  at  1.35  A.  M.,  Sunday.  I  had  the  salvage 
steamer  Denmark  here  .  .  .  towing  at  her  .  .  .  had  five  hours' 

[  121  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

rest  the  whole  time  ...  we  all  worked  like  devils  to  get  her  off 
before  bad  weather  came  on,  .  .  .  which  did  come  twelve  hours 
after,  and  one  hour  of  it  would  have  made  a  total  wreck  of  her  .  .  . 
have  done  nothing  else  but  see  into  recovering  the  jettisoned 
cargo,  selling  it  by  auction  and  writing  reports  to  Lloyds  and  the 
Salvage  Co.,  London.  Then  a  beautiful,  three-masted  steel 
barkentine  of  220  tons  has  gone  on  the  rocks  at  Zleiten  down  the 
coast,  and  this  means  work. 

A  following  letter  written  shortly  after  this 
reads : 

Have  had  no  time  to  write  as  I  had  a  steam  launch  smashed 
up,  and  on  December  22  [1905]  a  British  steamer,  the  Colling- 
ham,  got  on  a  reef.  Have  salvage  steamer  here  and  am  working 
day  and  night.  ...  I  got  her  off,  .  .  .  but  she  is  badly  damaged. 

Such  is  the  record  for  one  month  off  the  port 
of  Tripoli  alone. 

The  seaboard  of  Tripolitania  can  well  afford 
to  boast  of  its  share  of  maritime  destruction. 
The  dangerous  quicksands  of  the  Major  and 
Minor  Syrtes  of  the  ancients  are  in  the  bight  of 
her  coast-line:  sands  whose  fatal  suction,  down- 
ward-drawing, has  claimed  many  a  Roman 
trireme,  many  a  caravel  and  stately  ship  of  the 
line,  and  many  a  modern  vessel  of  steel.  To  the 
treacherous  reefs  off  Tripoli  harbor  we  owe  the 
loss  of  the  PhiladeljjJiia,  and  it  was  off  Tripoli,  in 
a  gale,  that  the  United  States  Dry  Dock  Dewey, 
on  her  famous  voyage  to  the  Philippines,  came 
near  meeting  disaster. 

[122] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

In  Tunis,  Algiers,  and  other  ports  in  the  two 
French  North  African  colonies,  good  harbors 
have  been  constructed  and  vessels  unload  at  the 
quays;  but  in  Tripoli  and  Morocco  all  cargoes 
are  transferred  in  lighters  or  galleylike  row- 
boats,  and  little  protection  is  offered  vessels 
lying  at  anchor.  Arabs  on  the  whole  are  good 
sailors  and  are  not  lacking  in  courage.  One 
Mediterranean  captain  told  me  that  the  best 
crew  he  ever  had  was  made  up  of  Moroccans — 
descendants  perhaps  of  the  old  rovers  of  Salli 
and  Rabat. 

When  in  the  heavy  Arab  galleys,  I  never  tired 
of  watching  the  swarthy  Islamites  handle  the 
mammoth  sweeps.  Barefooted,  each  man  would 
clinch  the  thwart  in  front  of  him  with  his  toes, 
rise  with  the  loom  of  the  oar  to  a  standing  posi- 
tion, then  with  a  grunt  throw  himself  back  with 
all  his  supple  strength.  To  *' catch  a  crab" 
under  these  conditions  was  a  serious  matter. 
The  way  in  which  they  handled  these  enormous 
sweeps  was  remarkable,  forcing  the  ponderous 
galleys  through  the  water  at  the  rate  they  did. 
Many  of  the  sweeps  must  have  been  over  twenty 
feet  in  length. 

Some  idea  of  the  relative  importance  of  Tripo- 
[123] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

li's  leading  exports  may  be  obtained  when  one 
considers  that  in  1904,  for  instance,  out  of  a 
total  export  trade  of  about  $2,000,000,  sponges 
amounted  to  $350,000  or  over  a  fifth,  esparto 
grass  to  $630,000  or  over  a  third,  and  goods  from 
the  trans-Saharan  caravan  trade  to  $314,000  or 
over  one-sixth.  The  other  remaining  three- 
tenths  of  her  exports  were  comprised  of  the 
products  of  the  oases  and  towns  on  or  near 
the  coast. 

The  methods  of  gathering  and  marketing  these 
three  leading  exports  are  as  interesting  as  they 
are  unique  and  hazardous,  and  the  men  engaged 
in  them  as  picturesque  and  dirty  as  they  are  hard- 
working and  fearless — the  sponge  diver  on  his 
restless  sea  of  brine;  the  esparto  picker  in  his 
waving  sea  of  sun-dried  grass ;  the  caravaneer  on 
his  shifting,  burning  sea  of  sand. 

In  the  eastern  half  of  the  Mediterranean,  along 
the  coast  from  Tunis  to  the  Levant,  including  the 
islands  of  the  ^Egean  Sea,  stretch  great  regions 
of  sponge  colonies.  Those  extending  for  three 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  along  the  North  African 
coast,  from  the  Tunisian  frontier  to  Misurata  on 
the  east,  are  known  as  the  Tripoli  grounds,  and 
here  with  the  last  north  winds  of  the  rainy  season 

[124] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

come  the  sponge  fleets  from  the  Greek  Archi- 
pelago. I  well  remember  the  night  at  the  Turk- 
ish Club  that  I  obtained  my  first  insight  into  the 
life  of  the  Greek  scaphander.*  A  party  of  us,  as 
usual,  sat  about  one  of  the  tables  after  tennis  and 
throwing  the  discus  by  the  shaded  court  under 
the  southern  lee  of  the  town  wall. 

Near  by,  the  dark  sapphire-blue  walls  of  the 
ancient  Castle  of  the  Bashaws  stood  silhouetted 
against  a  west  of  yellow  amethyst.  Its  great 
shadow  had  crept  across  the  garden  to  where  we 
sat,  on  over  the  dry  bed. of  a  neighboring  wadi, 
finally  lengthening  across  the  Suk-el-Thalat, 
where  the  distant  Arab  houses  stood  out — a  level 
golden  line  from  the  dusk  shadows  of  the  purple 
twilight. 

"Yes,  sewn  up  in  a  bag!'*  The  speaker  was 
one  of  the  Greek  naval  officers.  *'It  was  in  the 
Gulf  of  Sirte,  two  years  ago,"  he  continued.  "A 
diver  from  one  of  the  machine  boats  had  gone 
down  for  sponges,  and  crawling  over  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  came  upon  a  large  bag.  Perhaps  the 
thought  of  sunken  treasure  caused  him  to  rip 
open  more  hastily  its  half-rotten  threads.  .  .  . 

'  Divers  who  use  the  scaphandra  or  machine  [air-pump,  suit, 
helmet,  and  tube]. 

[125] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Well,  there  were  two  of  them  in  it;  both  were 
found  to  have  been  sponge  divers." 

"Buried  at  sea?"  I  queried. 

A  peculiar  smile  played  for  a  moment  around 
the  white  teeth  of  the  olive-skinned  Greek.  "Yes, 
but  we  could  find  no  record  of  the  burial!" 

"And  that  case  of  the  diver  in  a  sponge  boat 
off  Derna  .?"  added  an  Englishman.  "Paralysis 
didn't  creep  fast  enough,  and  he  was  only  dead 
wood  aboard,  so  they  buried  him  alive  in  the  hot 
sand  of  the  Sahara.  Even  after  he  was  dead 
some  thieving  Arabs  stole  his  clothes." 

"Well,  there  may  be  cases  of  foul  play,"  the 
Greek  admitted,  "yet  they  are  insignificant  com- 
pared with  that  deadly  enemy  of  the  scaphander 
— diver's  paralysis.  Why,  out  of  the  seven  hun- 
dred scaphanders  working  on  this  coast,  from 
sixty  to  a  hundred  die  every  year,  and,  sooner  or 
later,  hardly  a  man  escapes  from  it  in  one  form 
or  another.  Of  course  these  conditions  are  due, 
in  great  part,  to  the  ignorance  and  brutality  of 
the  men  engaged  in  the  industry.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  have  been  captains  from  yEgina, 
who  have  been  in  business  for  fifteen  years  and 
have  never  lost  a  diver.  With  those  two  vessels 
in  the  bay  yonder,"  and  he  waved  his  hand  tow- 

[  126  ] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

ard  two  white-painted  craft,  "the  hospital-ship 
Crete  and  the  corvette  Paralos  and  a  sponge 
diver's  hospital  on  shore,  the  Greek  Government 
is  doing  everything  possible  to  remedy  the  con- 
ditions. But,  owing  to  the  extensive  area  of  the 
sponge  grounds  and  other  causes,  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  keep  close  watch  and  detect  those 
who  violate  the  laws." 

One  bit  of  interesting  information  led  to  an- 
other: the  common  diver,  who  dives  naked  with 
a  piece  of  marble  and  line,  suffers  only  slight 
affections  of  the  ears;  with  the  scaphander  or 
helmeted  diver,  the  greatest  danger  occurs  in  the 
rapid  ascent,  producing  sudden  relief  of  pres- 
sure, dangerous  symptoms  appearing  only  when 
he  emerges  into  the  fresh  air,  generally  shortly 
after  the  helmet  is  removed;  and  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  on  the  descent  a  partially  paralyzed 
diver  recovers  the  use  of  his  limbs  again  and  his 
circulation  becomes  normal.  Many  of  them,  in 
the  prime  of  life  paralyzed  and  crippled,  unfit- 
ted for  anything  else,  continue  to  drag  themselves 
about  at  their  wearisome  work,  believing  the 
disease  to  be  indispensable  to  the  vocation. 

The  generally  accepted  theory  of  diver's  pa- 
ralysis is  that  the  various  vessels  of  the  body  are 

[127] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

contracted  and  the  blood  is  driven  from  the  cen- 
tral intestines,  causing  congestion,  with  or  with- 
out hemorrhage,  minute  balls  of  air  expanding 
and  rupturing  these  vessels,  the  great  danger  oc- 
curring when  the  balls  develop  and  last.  They 
consist  of  azote  [nitrogen]  dissolving  in  the  blood 
and  becoming  free  when  the  pressure  is  with- 
drawn, sometimes  preventing  circulation  in  the 
lungs  or,  blocking  it  in  the  nervous  system,  pro- 
ducing local  anaemia.  If  these  balls  of  azote  are 
large  and  many,  death  usually  occurs  through 
paralysis  of  the  heart;  when  small  they  are  car- 
ried by  the  circulation  of  the  blood  to  the  brain 
and  medulla,  causing  paralysis  in  one  or  more 
of  its  multitudinous  forms.  Part  of  the  cure  is 
by  immersion  and  gradual  ascending,  stopping 
one  minute  every  five  metres. 

The  character  of  the  phenomena  of  diver's  pa- 
ralysis may  be  seen  in  the  following  instance: 

A  scaphander,  Michael  Sygalos,  descended  to 
a  depth  of  fifty-two  metres,  remaining  below 
fifty  minutes  and  making  a  very  rapid  ascent, 
descending  again  in  an  hour  and  a  half  to  the 
same  depth,  where  he  remained  for  forty-five 
minutes,  and  again  made  a  very  rapid  ascent,  but 
felt  no  ill  results.    In  an  hour  he  descended  once 

[  128  ] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

more  to  the  same  depth,  where  he  remained  for 
thirty  minutes,  making  for  the  third  time  a  very 
rapid  ascent.  For  a  few  minutes  he  felt  no  ill 
effects,  but  as  the  helmet  was  removed  he  was 
seized  with  a  terrific  dizziness  and  fell  uncon- 
scious to  the  deck.  Later  he  revived,  feeling  a 
congestion  or  pressure  of  blood,  as  it  were,  in  his 
legs,  preventing  him  from  standing  alone.  This 
condition  lasted  until  midnight  when  he  was 
attacked  by  complete  paralysis,  losing  all  his 
senses  and  power  of  movement  save  the  ability 
to  slightly  move  his  head.  He  lingered  through 
the  hot  summer  until  the  middle  of  August. 

Many  paralytics  are  incurable,  and  death 
through  paroxysms  often  results,  though  many 
are  partially  and  some  permanently  cured. 

One  hot  day,  not  long  after  our  talk  at  the 
Cafe,  we  stood  out  in  one  of  the  Crete  s  whale- 
boats  under  a  small  lug-sail  to  meet  the  deposit 
boat  Panayea.  Close-hauled,  she  bore  down 
upon  us,  her  rakish  rig  with  big  lateen  sails  and 
jib  straining  at  every  line  and  spar.  On  she 
came,  painting  two  long  diverging  lines  of  foam- 
ing white  on  the  sparkling  blue.  She  crossed  our 
bows,  her  great  sails  flapped,  she  came  into  the 
wind;   and  as  she  filled  away  I  climbed  aboard, 

[129] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  we  stood  to  the  edge  of  the  sponge  gi'ounds, 
which  extend  from  five  to  twenty  miles  off  the 
Tripoli  coast. 

So  began  my  acquaintance  with  the  Greek 
sponge  divers,  whose  day's  work  is  the  season's 
work  and  who,  for  six  months  of  the  year,  from 
April  to  October,  labor  from  sunrise  to  sunset, 
generally  on  a  rough  sea  and  under  the  scorch- 
ing rays  of  an  African  sun. 

We  scudded  by  some  small  harpun  [harpoon] 
boats  and  gangara  [trawlers],  near  enough  to  the 
former  to  see  their  small  crews,  of  from  three  to 
five  men  each,  at  work.  They  carefully  exam- 
ined the  sea  bottom,  sometimes  to  a  depth  of 
twenty  metres,  with  a  special  glass  of  their  own, 
and  pulled  up  the  marketable  sponges  with  har- 
poons attached  to  the  ends  of  long  poles.  The 
slightly  larger  gangara — the  gargameleon  of  the 
ancients — slowly  trawled  for  sponges,  dragging 
their  destructive  nets  along  the  bed  of  the  sea  to 
a  depth  of  seventy-five  metres,  tearing  and  accu- 
mulating everything  in  their  path.  But  these 
methods  have  practically  been  abandoned  along 
this  coast  for  the  more  productive  grounds  of 
Cyprus  and  Crete. 

A  sponge  fleet  consists  of  the  five  and  six  ton 
[130] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

machine  boats  [trehanteria]  which  carry  air- 
pumping  machines  and  equipment  [scaphandra], 
and  which  are  divided  into  two  classes,  accord- 
ing to  the  quality  of  their  divers'  suits.  A  first- 
class  boat  is  manned  by  twenty  to  twenty-two 
men,  of  whom  ten  are  professional  divers  who 
descend  from  twenty-three  to  thirty  fathoms. 
The  second-class  boat  is  manned  by  from  four- 
teen to  sixteen  men,  of  whom  five  to  seven  are 
divers  who  descend  from  fifteen  to  twenty  fath- 
oms. As  the  fleets  keep  to  sea  for  two  months  at 
a  time,  every  four  machine  boats  are  attended  by 
one  fifty  to  sixty  ton  deposit  boat  [deposita]. 
Aboard  the  deposit  boat  are  stored  the  sponges, 
food,  clothing,  and  other  necessities;  they  also 
serve  as  sleeping  quarters  for  some  of  the  crews 
of  the  machine  boats.  Smaller  supply  boats 
[bakietta]  communicate  with  shore,  bring  sup- 
plies from  Greece  and  also  men  to  take  the  places 
of  those  who  have  died.  Some  three  thousand 
men  work  by  scaphandra  on  the  African  coast. 

Attacks  by  ferocious  fish  have  frightened  away 
the  "common"  divers,  who  dive  naked  wath  a 
piece  of  marble  [scandli]  and  line.  They  dive 
with  great  rapidity,  forty-five  to  over  fifty  me- 
tres,  and   usually   remain  below  two  minutes. 

[131] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Experts  have  stayed  as  long  as  four.  The  best 
divers  are  from  Kalimno  and  Symi.  A  few  years 
ago  that  hideous  black  creature,  the  dog-fish, 
bit  a  diver  in  two  and  desperately  wounded  sev- 
eral others.  One  of  the  most  thrilling  escapes 
ever  recorded  is  that  of  a  diver,  who,  as  he  de- 
scended, holding  the  scandli  in  front  of  him,  en- 
tered the  mouth  of  a  large  shark.  The  scandli 
being  edgewise  prevented  the  huge  jaws  from 
closing,  and  the  diver  with  diflSculty  wriggled 
out  and  was  hauled  up.  The  shark,  ejecting  the 
scandli,  pursued  him  to  the  surface,  and  was 
seen  by  those  in  the  boat  to  leap  for  his  prey  as 
the  crew  hauled  the  diver  aboard.  By  careful 
nursing  the  wounded  man  recovered  from  the 
long,  deep  scratches  of  the  monster's  teeth  on  his 
chest  and  back.  Now  virtually  the  scaphanders 
alone  remain  to  claim  the  profits  of  the  industry, 
the  proceeds  of  which  in  a  single  year  have 
amounted  to  almost  a  million  dollars. 

Reaching  the  grounds,  we  were  transferred  to 
the  machine  boat  El-Pish.  The  greater  number 
of  the  sponge  boats  fly  the  Greek  flag,  and  are 
manned  by  Greeks  hailing  mainly  from  the 
islands  of  Hydra  and  iEgina,  while  a  few  fly  the 
crescent  flag  of  the  Ottoman  Empire  and  come 

[132] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

from  the  Turkish  islands  of  Kalimno,  Symi,  and 
Khalki  in  the  Archipelago,  whose  crews  are  made 
up  of  subjugated  Greeks  from  those  islands. 

During  the  long,  cold  winter  months  the 
sponge  fishers  spend  most  of  their  time  ashore  in 
their  island  homes.  AVhen  the  first  balmy  airs 
of  the  African  spring  are  wafted  across  the  Medi- 
terranean from  the  oleander-fringed  wadis  and 
oases  of  the  Sahara,  the  little  seaport  towns  of 
the  sponge  fishers  bestir  themselves,  the  last 
boats  are  put  in  commission,  and  the  final  con- 
tracts among  owners,  captains,  and  crews  are 
drawn  up. 

For  equipment,  provisions,  and  advance  pay- 
ment of  the  crews,  each  captain  is  required  to 
provide  a  capital  of  forty  to  sixty  thousand 
drachmas — being  approximately  $12,000,  but  at 
present  much  depreciated.  Capitalists  advance 
this  money  at  a  rate  of  from  two  to  three  per 
cent,  per  month,  for  the  season,  which  is  deducted 
at  once  from  the  capital.  The  novice  receives 
from  three  to  seven  hundred  drachmas  for  the 
season,  the  experienced  diver  from  one  to  three 
thousand.  In  some  instances  the  diver  shares  in 
the  profits,  but  it  more  often  happens  that  his 
season's  earnings  are  less  than  his  advanced  pay, 

[133] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

in  which  case  he  must  work  out  the  difference 
the  next  year.  Should  he  be  injured  or  disabled, 
his  pay  continues  on  the  same  basis,  and  in  case 
of  death  his  heirs  receive  his  money. 

After  the  final  haul  is  made  and  the  sponges 
are  sold,  the  commission  to  the  Turks,  who  main- 
tain a  war-ship  here,  is  first  taken  out  of  the  pro- 
ceeds, a  third  of  the  remainder  goes  to  the  cap- 
tain for  ship's  expenses  and  equipment,  and  from 
the  remaining  two-thirds  must  be  taken  the  ex- 
pense for  the  provisions.  Of  the  final  balance, 
one  and  a  half  shares  go  to  the  captain  and 
supervisor  each,  four  shares  to  each  diver,  and 
one  to  each  sailor. 

Not  only  to  increase  the  proceeds,  but  to  come 
out  even  on  the  outfit,  the  captains  are  obliged 
to  treat  the  divers  with  great  severity,  and  hire 
overseers  who  devise  most  brutal  means  of  forc- 
ing them  to  fish  at  any  cost.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  divers  give  much  cause  for  complaint.  They 
come  from  all  parts  of  Greece  and  the  Archi- 
pelago; many  are  nondescripts  who  have  never 
been  sailors  and  are  persuaded  to  go  into  this  for 
easy  gains,  failing  to  realize  the  dangers  of  the 
life;  for  once  they  are  injured  or  disabled  by  their 
arch  enemy,  diver's  paralysis,  they  become  un- 

[134] 


"  The  bag  of  dark,  heavy  sponges  .    .   .   was  hauled  aboard  " 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

fitted  for  any  other  work,  and  are  provided  for 
by  the  captains  during  the  winter. 

The  deck  of  the  El-Pish,  where  I  slept,  save 
for  its  dirt  and  confusion,  was  not  unHke  that  of 
the  ordinary  fishing  schooner.  At  daybreak  I 
threw  off  the  dew-soaked  canvas  that  served  as 
my  covering  at  night.  A  number  of  sponge 
boats  disturbed  the  placid  rose  surface  of  the 
water ;  high  up  in  the  air  several  white  gull  forms 
overhead  broke  the  tender  blue,  mingling  their 
cries  with  the  voices  of  the  men  and  the  creaking 
blocks.  The  first  rays  of  the  sun  lit  up  the 
bronzed  features  of  the  overseer,  as  he  stopped  to 
examine  the  air-pump,  in  which  are  three  cylin- 
drical, leather-lined  compartments.  Through 
these  the  air,  is  pumped  to  the  diver  below.  The 
warmth  of  this  air  which  is  often  blown  from  the 
heated  sands  of  the  Desert,  is  increased  by  fric- 
tion in  the  compartments,  and  is  obviated  by 
coolers  supplied  every  half-hour  with  cold  water. 
On  the  deck  by  his  side  was  a  rubber  tube  which 
must  resist  the  pressure  of  twenty  atmospheres, 
and  is  consequently  re-enforced  on  the  inside 
by  coiled  wire. 

Screwing  one  end  of  the  tube  to  the  air-pump 
and  the  other  to  the  back  of  a  heavy  brass  hel- 

[135] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

met,  the  overseer  ordered  the  two  sailors  into  the 
main-hatch,  to  *' stand  by"  the  big  pump  wheels 
of  the  machine.  On  a  board  placed  across  the 
deck  sat  Basilio  Pteroudiz,  a  diver,  preparing  for 
the  descent.  He  had  already  donned  the  main 
garment,  which  was  made  of  strong,  double 
water-proofed  cotton  cloth,  with  an  interlay er  of 
rubber;  around  his  neck  was  a  collar  of  rubber, 
to  which  was  attached  the  brass  collar  of  the 
helmet;  at  his  wrists,  which  were  soaped  to  aid 
suction,  the  garment  ended  in  tightly  fitting 
rubber  wristbands,  and  under  his  garment  he 
wore  heavy  woollen  underwear  and  socks.  The 
buoyancy  of  the  suit  when  inflated  necessitated 
the  addition  of  a  seventeen  pound  lead  weight 
attached  to  each  shoe,  while  about  his  chest  and 
back  were  fastened  a  ten  and  a  seven  pound 
weight  respectively. 

With  assistance  he  staggered  to  the  forward 
rail,  where  a  ladder  hung  by  which  the  divers 
descend  to  the  water.  A  sign  from  the  overseer 
and  the  men  gave  way  at  the  pumps,  a  sailor 
seized  the  helmet  with  its  four  glass  windows, 
placed  it  over  the  head  of  Pteroudiz,  screwed  and 
bolted  it  to  the  brass  collar.  The  suit  at  once  be- 
came inflated  as  far  as  the  waist,  where  a  rope 

[136] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

was  fastened.  This  with  the  tube  was  paid  out, 
and  taking  a  net  sponge  bag  he  descended  over 
the  side.  Even  with  the  extra  hundred  and 
seventy-five  pounds  of  equipment  it  was  some 
seconds  before  he  was  able  to  sink.  The  rope 
was  held  by  the  overseer,  serving  not  only  as  a 
safeguard  but  also  as  a  means  of  communica- 
tion. From  time  to  time  the  overseer  consulted 
the  manometrom  in  the  machine,  which  indicated 
the  pressure  of  the  air  in  the  diver's  suit,  conse- 
quently his  depth. 

I  followed  his  sinking  form,  as  the  last  glint  of 
his  shining  helmet,  radiating  shafts  of  reflected 
light  in  all  directions,  disappeared  into  the  obliv- 
ion of  the  mysterious  depths.  Crawling  along 
the  bottom,  taking  care  not  to  wrench  the  weights 
from  his  feet,  which  would  cause  him  to  turn 
head  downward,  he  searched  among  the  wonders 
and  beauties  of  the  semitropical  sea  garden,  and 
when  he  found  a  colony  of  the  reddish-brown 
Tripoli  sponge,  signalled  to  the  overseer,  where- 
upon the  spot  was  buoyed.  Discarding  among 
others  the  few  black  and  worthless  male  sponges, 
he  selected  only  the  marketable  sponges,  the 
best  of  which  he  gathered  from  the  rocks.  Way 
above  and  over  him,  seen  through  the  luminous 

[137] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

half-lights  of  the  sunlit  sea  water,  the  fishlike 
shape  of  the  El-Pish  rocked  on  the  surface;  and 
as  he  sought  new  spots  she  followed  him,  her 
four  huge  finlike  sweeps  stirring  and  churning  the 
water  as  though  breaking  and  scattering  myriads 
of  jewelled  braids.  Sometimes  the  shadowy 
form  of  a  huge  shark  or  dog-fish  glided  danger- 
ously near  him,  notwithstanding  the  repeated 
piping  of  the  air  whistle  on  deck — though  as  yet 
their  attacks  have  been  confined  to  the  common 
diver. 

In  the  helmet  to  the  right  and  behind  the  head 
was  a  valve,  against  which  he  pressed  his  head 
from  time  to  time  in  order  to  expel  the  expired 
air,  w^hich  rose  to  the  surface  like  magnified  wob- 
bling globules  of  quicksilver,  assisting  those 
above  in  locating  his  position.  The  descent  gen- 
erally takes  about  two  minutes,  the  diver  staying 
down  occasionally  as  long  as  fifty,  and  sometimes 
reaching  a  depth  of  over  sixty  metres,  absolutely 
disregarding  the  limit  of  thirty-eight  metres  set 
by  the  laws  of  the  Greek  Navy  Department. 
About  two  minutes  are  occupied  in  pulling  him 
up  by  rope,  but  usually  he  buoys  himself  to  the 
surface  in  less  than  a  minute,  ascending  more 
rapidly  than  the  rope  can  be  hauled  in;  and  to 

[138] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

this  cause  in  particular  can  be  attributed  diver's 
paralysis  and  other  common  injuries. 

Suddenly  Pteroudiz  made  his  appearance  at 
the  surface,  the  water  rolling  off  his  helmet  and 
shoulders  as  from  some  great  amphibious  crea- 
ture; and  the  bag  of  dark,  heavy  sponges,  drip- 
ping and  streaming  with  ooze  and  sea  water, 
was  hauled  aboard.  No  sooner  had  he  appeared 
on  deck  and  removed  his  helmet  than  another 
diver,  dressed  and  waiting,  at  once  made  his 
descent,  and  so  it  goes  on  through  the  hot  day. 
It  was  not  without  some  persuasion  that  the  cap- 
tain acquiesced  to  my  request  to  go  down  in  one 
of  the  suits.  But  at  last  one  day,  when  five  miles 
out  to  sea,  I  donned  the  suit  and  the  heavy  brass 
helmet  was  screwed  down  and  locked  to  the  col- 
lar. At  first  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  I 
managed  to  control  my  heavily  weighted  feet 
and  walk  across  the  rolling  slippery  deck,  during 
which  experiment  the  barefooted  Greeks  gave 
me  a  wide  path.  The  sensation  as  the  helmet 
was  locked  and  the  pumps  started  was  one  of 
slight  compression  only,  about  the  head,  to  which 
one  at  once  becomes  accustomed.  The  overseer, 
despite  my  signals  from  the  vision  of  opalescent 
refracted  lights  into  which  I  had  sunk,  refused  to 

[139] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

pay  out  sufficient  rope  to  allow  me  to  make  bot- 
tom. He  feared  the  dangers  which  attend  the 
novice  on  too  great  a  depth  at  the  start,  and  par- 
ticularly when  no  preparation  pertaining  to  diet 
has  been  made. 

Many  captains  and  overseers  pay  practically 
no  attention  to  depth  and  time,  compelling  the 
diver  to  descend  again  at  once  if  his  sponges  are 
too  few  or  of  inferior  quality.  Often  no  consid- 
'  eration  is  given  the  defenceless  diver,  as,  stagger- 
ing and  almost  overcome  in  the  depths  below,  he 
signals  to  come  up,  and  if  he  buoys  himself  to  the 
surface,  he  is  forced  to  go  down  again. 

Overseers  direct  the  descents,  deciding  the 
divers'  time  below,  and  frequently  take  com- 
mand when  the  captains  are  ashore. 

Sometimes  the  overseers  not  only  secretly  fix 
the  pumps  so  that  less  pressure  is  indicated,  but 
instead  of  using  pure  vaseline  they  grease  the 
machines  with  old  lard  and  oil,  which  leak  into 
the  tube,  sending  foul  air  down  to  the  diver. 
The  coolers  are  so  neglected  that  the  water  be- 
comes unbearably  hot  to  the  touch,  and  the  air 
forced  down  even  hotter.  The  suit  is  sometimes 
neglected  and  twice  in  the  year  preceding  my 
visit  the  helmet  became  detached  while  the  diver 

[140] 


THE  GREEK  SPONGE  DIVERS 

was  below.  One  of  the  men  was  saved  and  the 
other  drowned. 

And  so,  it  is  not  strange  that  divers  often  bribe 
their  overseers  in  order  to  secure  leniency,  and 
even  at  the  moment  of  descent  make  agreements 
by  signs  to  spare  their  Hves. 

As  soon  as  the  sponges  are  brought  aboard 
they  are  thrown  in  heaps  on  deck  near  the  scup- 
pers, where  the  barefooted  sailors  tramp  and 
work  out  the  ooze;  then  strung  on  lines  they  are 
soused  over  the  side  and  trail  overboard  some 
ten  hours  during  the  night.  To  break  and  sepa- 
rate from  them  shell-fish  and  other  parasites, 
they  are  beaten  with  heavy  sticks  on  deck  or  on 
the  reef  rocks  off  Tripoli;  and,  after  being  well 
soaked  in  the  sea  again,  many  are  bleached  by 
being  immersed  in  a  tub  of  water  containing  a 
certain  solution  of  oxalic  acid,  from  which  they 
emerge  a  yellowish  color,  care  having  been  taken 
to  avoid  burning  them. 

Tripoli  sponges  are  inferior  to  those  found  in 
other  parts  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  best  quality 
[those  gathered  from  rocks]  is  worth  from  $4.00 
to  $5.00  per  oke  [2.82  lbs.];  the  second  quality 
[where  seaweed  abounds],  from  $3.20  to  $4.00 
per  oke ;  and  the  third  quality,  brought  up  with- 

[Ul] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

out  intent  by  the  trawlers,  from  $2.40  to  $4.00. 
Male  sponges,  which  do  not  abound  on  the 
Tripoli  coast,  are  worthless. 

Notwithstanding  the  importance  of  the  sponge 
industry  the  season  after  I  left  Tripoli  the  fol- 
lowing was  received  from  Mr.  Riley : 

A  short  time  since  the  Governor  General  issued  orders  that  all 
machine  boats  had  three  days  to  get  their  provisions  and  clear  out 
of  Tripoli  Harbor  and  Tripoli  Port.  This  upset  things  a  bit  and 
meant  ruin  to  some  and  thousands  of  d£'s  loss  to  others,  so  I  saw 
his  Excellency,  and  in  two  hours  had  fixed  it  up,  at  least  until  he 
wired  to  Constantinople.  Afterward  I  saw  him  again  and  the 
thing  is  fixed  up  for  this  season  at  least,  and  no  bothering  through 
the  Consulates. 

Often  great  strings  of  sponges  bleaching  and 
drying  in  the  sun  cover  large  portions  of  the 
standing  rigging  of  deposit  boats  when  in  port. 
When  dry  they  are  worked  up  in  sand,  then 
packed  in  boxes  ready  for  shipment;  a  third  to 
a  quarter  of  the  crop  is  sold  direct  from  Tripoli, 
mainly  to  England  and  to  France  and  Italy;  the 
bulk  of  the  crop,  unbleached  and  unprepared, 
is  taken  at  the  close  of  the  season  to  the  islands 
from  which  the  boats  came,  where  long  experi- 
ence, manipulation,  and  cheap  labor  prepare 
them  for  the  European  market. 

At  sundown,  after  the  last  descent  had  been 
made  and  the  sponges  put  over  the  side,  the  ma- 

[142] 


<   i 


THE   GREEK  SPONGE   DIVERS 

chine  was  housed  and  the  crew  boarded  the 
Panayea.  The  smoke  from  her  galley  stove 
drifted  lazily  toward  the  distant  low-lying  coast 
of  Africa,  where  was  just  visible  the  long  palm 
fringe  of  the  oasis  of  Tripoli.  Until  dark,  the 
men  lounged  around  the  deck,  an  occasional 
group  at  cards,  but  most  of  them  absorbed  in 
smoking  or  conversation. 

The  glittering  eyes  and  bronzed  faces  of  the 
crew  reflected  the  light  from  a  lantern  and  the 
glow  of  the  galley  stove,  near  which,  squatting 
on  the  deck,  spare  boxes,  or  spars,  we  ate  the 
evening  meal,  the  only  one  of  the  day  allowed  to 
divers  on  account  of  the  character  of  their  work ; 
bi!t  the  sailors  fare  better,  having  at  noon  a  meal 
of  cheese,  olives,  herring,  and  rice.  To-night  we 
sat  down  to  sun-dried  goat's  flesh,  hardtack,  a 
hot  dish  of  lentils,  and  a  pint  of  wine  each. 

In  less  than  an  hour  the  crew  had  turned  in  for 
the  night — on  deck  or  below,  as  the  case  might 
be.  A  fevv^  paralyzed  divers  had  dragged  them- 
selves, or  been  assisted,  to  the  unspeakably  foul- 
smelling,  congested  quarters  below,  where  be- 
tween the  narrow  bunks  the  spaces  were  filled 
with  provisions,  clothes,  water-casks,  fuel,  and 
sick  men. 

[143] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

At  the  end  of  the  season,  when  the  wind 
sweeps  down  from  the  north,  and  the  jagged  reef- 
Hned  coast  of  TripoH  is  lashed  into  foam,  these 
men  of  the  sea,  who  have  not  abeady  weighed 
anchor  for  unknown  ports,  set  sail  for  their  island 
homes,  carrying  with  them  the  season's  haul, 
though  a  few  remain,  going  out  when  the  weather 
permits,  or  fishing  in  certain  protected  parts  of 
the  Archipelago. 

I  was  alone  with  the  watch  on  deck.  Through 
the  criss-cross  of  the  rigging  and  spars  I  could 
see  his  dim  moonlit  form  as  he  "gave  a  spoke" 
at  the  wheel  now  and  again.  Over  the  side  the 
phosphorescence  mingled  in  the  quiet  water 
with  the  silver  star  dust  of  the  blue  night.  I 
gazed  down  into  the  dark,  mysterious,  and  seem- 
ingly bottomless  sea,  where  I,  too,  had  felt  the 
first  suffocation  and  tight  congestion,  that  strange 
sense  of  entire  isolation  and  chance — then  the 
depth  and  wonder  of  it  all. 

So  it  is  with  some  of  the  men  who  go  down  to 
the  sea  in  ships. 


[144] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 


THE   ESPARTO   PICKERS 


SUNRISE  shot  over  the  limestone  range  of 
the  TripoH  hills.  Back  of  them  and  to  the 
south  caiioned  out  by  numerous  wadis  the 
plateau  lands  of  the  Sahara  stretched  away. 
Northward  forty  to  ninety  miles  to  the  sea  ran  a 
tract  of  country  sprinkled  with  oases.  About 
these  and  along  the  river  courses  where  Arabs, 
Berbers,  and  Blacks  cultivate  the  arid  wastes,  at 
harvest  time  golden  grains  wave  under  the  hot 
Desert  winds,  and  here  and  there  green  patches 
of  olive  groves  darken  the  clayey,  sandy  soil. 
A  night  mist  still  hung  tenaciously  in  the  valleys 
and  over  the  low  foot-hills  along  which  I  rode, 
and  the  heavy  dew-bejewelled  blades  of  esparto 
grass  ^  drenched  hoof  and  fetlock  as  my  horse 
scattered  myriads  of  water  diamonds  from  its 
wiry  clumps. 

*  Esparto — a  Spanish  name  given  two  or  three  kinds  of  grass, 
more  particularly  to  the  vmrcrochloa  tenacissima  indigenous  to  South- 
ern Europe  and  North  Africa. 

[U5] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Suddenly  from  over  the  brow  of  a  dune  a 
strange,  bulky  apparition  lifted  indistinctly  from 
the  great  solitudes.  Then  another  and  still  oth- 
ers  of  these  gray  spectres  moved  silently  toward 
us  through  the  mist  film,  and  a  caravan  of  heavily 
loaded  camels  squdged  silently  by,  their  great 
incongruous  shapes  almost  lost  beneath  the  huge 
bundles  of  esparto  grass  which  were  thrown 
across  their  humps. 

As  the  night  mists  dispelled  before  the  heat 
not  a  tree  or  a  shrub  broke  the  monotonous  yet 
imposing  harmony  of  the  landscape.  My  eye 
wandered  over  mile  upon  mile  of  an  immense 
plain  covered  by  halfa,^  nothing  but  halfa,  over 
which  the  soft,  hot  breeze  of  the  gibli  played  in 
lazy  wantonness,  rolling,  ever  rolling  in  long  bil- 
lows its  undulating  tops. 

So  from  Portugal  and  Spain,  along  the  sandy 
regions  of  the  Atlas,  as  they  range  through  the 
western  half  of  Northern  Africa  until  they  finally 
dwindle  away  into  the  Desert  sands  of  Tripoli, 
at  intervals  great  seas  of  this  waving  broomlike 
weed  grow  at  the  bases  of  the  mountains  and  on 
the  plateau  lands.  While  in  Spain  and  the  Bar- 
bary  States  it  is  an  object  of  commercial  enter- 

'  By  Arabs  esparto  grass  is  called  halfa  or  alfa. 
[146] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

prise,  in  Tripoli  the  industry  is  unique  in  its  im- 
portance and  has  enough  of  the  unusual  and  of 
the  element  of  danger  to  make  it  picturesque  in 
its  setting,  from  when  the  grass  is  gathered  by 
the  Arabs  of  the  wadan  to  the  time  when  husky 
Blacks  hook  the  great  bales  aboard  vessels 
which  bear  it  away  to  England  for  the  manufact- 
ure of  paper. 

In  the  distance  the  rude  shacks  of  some  esparto 
pickers  appeared,  looking  more  like  mounds  of 
earth  than  habitations.  About  them  some  hob- 
bled camels  browsed  on  the  dryness.  I  drew 
rein  before  one  of  the  shacks,  while  some  of  the 
family  ventured  forth.  A  boy,  first  with  one 
dirty  hand,  then  with  the  other,  compressed  a 
moldable  mass  of  something  into  a  hard  lump, 
which  my  head  Arab  tried  to  convince  me  was 
a  camel's  milk  cheese.  That  it  bore  the  hall- 
mark of  the  maker  there  w^as  no  doubt.  Not 
far  off  were  the  bobbing  heads  of  the  esparto 
pickers.  Standing  leg-high  amid  the  waving 
halfa  they  paused  in  their  work  to  view  me 
curiously. 

On  close  approach  one  .finds  the  grass,  which 
is  perennial  and  bears  a  small  flower,  growing 
quite  sparsely  and  in  separate  clumps ;  the  strong 

[147] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

stems,  tough  and  fibrous,  radiate  from  the  large 
tap-root  of  each  plant.  Here  the  hired  picker 
puts  in  a  long  day's  work  for  starvation  wages  of 
perhaps  twenty  cents  a  day.  When  he  has 
picked  a  quantity  of  grass  he  ties  it  up  in  bun- 
dles with  bits  of  esparto  rope,  ready  to  be  packed 
into  large  nets. 

Despite  the  fact  that  the  esparto  is  considered 
nonreproductive  and  is  incapable  of  cultivation, 
I  noticed  that  the  Arabs  pulled  it  up,  root  and  all. 
This  is  the  custom  among  the  esparto  pickers  in 
Tripoli,  and  was  so  in  Tunis  and  Algeria  until  the 
French  put  a  stop  to  this  disastrous  method  of 
gathering.  Now  they  require  it  to  be  cut,  and 
thus  the  great  esparto  districts  of  Oran,  Bougie, 
Philippeville,  and  Oued  Laya  owe  their  preser- 
vation to  the  foresight  of  the  French  colonial 
government. 

Under  the  moonlight  of  early  morning  these 
Arabs  began  the  day's  work.  One  or  two  had 
discarded  their  woollen  baracans  as  the  early 
chill  wore  off,  and  had  put  on  the  fantastic 
broad-brimmed  esparto  hats  of  the  Sahel,  as  a 
protection  against  the  intense  heat  which  had 
already  hushed  down  on  the  landscape.  I  knew 
that  later   the   majority   of   them   would   again 

[148] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

throw  on  the  woollen  garment,  which  in  this  sun- 
scorched  land  is  w^orn  to  keep  out  the  heat  as 
well  as  the  chill.  Sandals  woven  from  esparto 
grass  or  the  broad-soled  Desert  slippers  pro- 
tected their  feet  from  being  scorched  and  cracked 
by  the  sun-baked  ground.  But  the  heat  and  the 
chill  are  the  least  dangers  which  beset  the  es- 
parto picker. 

With  careless  ease  he  gathers  the  longest  of 
the  wiry  stems  from  the  most  matured  clumps. 
Suddenly  with  a  catlike  spring  he  jumps  aside 
and  eludes  the  thrust  of  his  arch  enemy,  the 
deadly  viper,  whose  nest  he  has  disturbed  in  a 
tuft  of  matted  halfa  grass.  But  even  the  sharp 
eye  of  the  Arab  sometimes  fails  to  discern  the  vi- 
per's lair,  and  he  plunges  his  bare  arm  into  the 
very  nest  of  this  poisonous  reptile,  only  to  with- 
draw it  stung  and  bleeding  from  the  fangs  which 
have  buried  themselves  in  his  flesh. 

In  the  halfa  clumps  as  well  as  in  crevices  under 
stones  lurks  another  enemy,  the  great  rock  scor- 
pion of  Northern  Africa — a  noxious  creature 
sometimes  ten  inches  in  length.  Its  peculiar 
aversion  to  light  and  desire  for  warmth  make 
it  a  much-feared  night  visitor. 

"Arise,  let  us  make  morning,"  sounds  over  the 
[149] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

camp,  and  the  esparto  picker  not  infrequently 
shakes  out  of  his  baracan  a  scorpion  or  two. 
Perhaps  he  neglects  to  dislodge  one  from  his 
broad-soled  Desert  slippers,  and,  thus  cornered, 
the  scorpion  with  the  lash  of  his  venomous  tail 
attacks  the  intruder. 

The  consequences  depend  greatly  upon  the 
size  of  the  scorpion  and  the  constitution  of  the 
victim.  While  the  sting  is  not  necessarily  fatal, 
yet  the  Arabs'  sole  idea  of  treatment,  so  far  as  I 
could  ascertain,  was  either  to  cut  off  the  injured 
part  at  once  or  bandage  it  tightly  above  the 
wound.  Then  far  back  on  the  throbbing  Desert 
the  poisoned  man  is  left  alone  with  his  wild  de- 
lirium and  burning  thirst.  In  many  cases  the 
corpse  is  soon  cast  out  to  the  vultures  and  car- 
rion crows,  whose  shadows  likely  enough  have 
already  for  hours  been  passing  to  and  fro  over 
the  body. 

In  the  shadows  of  the  shacks  the  women  and 
children  not  employed  in  gathering  were  braid- 
ing ropes  and  making  them  into  immense  coarse- 
meshed  nets.  Each  net  when  stuffed  with  half  a 
contains  enough  for  a  single  camel  load,  and  this 
unwieldy  bulky  mass,  often  four  feet  wide  and 
twelve  in  length,  is  balanced  across  the  camel's 

[150] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

hump  and  secured  with  lashings  which  are  fas- 
tened fore  and  aft  under  the  camel's  neck  and  tail. 

Summer  is  the  close  season,  but  halfa  may  be 
gathered  during  the  entire  year.  It  is  extremely 
difficult  to  dry  if  picked  green,  and  should  not 
be  gathered  until  the  rainy  season — November 
to  March — has  passed  and  the  hot  Desert  breezes 
have  thoroughly  dried  out  its  moisture.  Fre- 
quently, however,  it  is  collected  green  by  the 
Arabs,  who  then  dry  it  slightly  before  taking  it  to 
market,  and  in  seasons  of  close  competition  the 
dealers  themselves  have  been  known  to  buy  it 
green. 

When  the  time  is  ripe  for  transporting  the 
esparto  to  the  seaports  of  Bengazi,  Khoms,  Zlei- 
ten  and  Tripoli,  a  caravan  is  organized  and  takes 
up  the  march  of  from  two  to  four  days  as  the 
camel  journeys.  In  irregular  single  file,  such  as 
the  one  which  passed  me  in  the  early  morning, 
it  creeps  its  way  over  the  Desert.  Perhaps  beside 
the  huge  camels  a  donkey  with  a  smaller  load  of 
halfa  or  water-filled  goat-skins  trudges  patiently 
along,  in  the  vanguard  a  big  white  wolfhound, 
while  the  Arabs  on  foot  distribute  themselves  the 
length  of  the  caravan.  Their  ever-ready  long 
flint-lock  guns  or  broadswords  are  slung  loosely 

[151] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

across  their  backs,  and  their  senses  are  ever  on 
the  alert  for  Desert  thieves  who  may  lurk  in  the 
shadows  or  lie  buried  in  the  sand  beside  the  trail. 

Snap ! !  Over  in  the  shadow  of  a  dune  a  flint- 
lock has  flashed  in  the  pan,  but  it  is  warning 
enough.  Bang!  Bang!  red  shafts  of  light  like 
lurid  meteors  light  up  in  fitful  glares  the  esparto 
pickers  as  amidst  the  confusion  some  bunch  the 
animals,  while  others  repel  the  attack.  But  the 
enemy,  as  is  his  custom,  has  withdrawn  as  sud- 
denly as  he  appeared.  A  wounded  esparto 
picker  is  lifted  on  to  a  camel;  a  bunch  of  halfa 
lying  on  the  Desert  a  short  distance  off  tells  the 
tale  of  a  successful  raid,  in  which  the  profits  of 
the  cargo  have  been  wiped  away  in  a  moment  by 
the  stampeding  to  the  enemy  of  a  valuable  camel; 
but  Allah  wills!  and  the  garfla  takes  up  the 
march,  soon  to  pass  along  the  hard-packed  cara- 
van road  through  the  palm  groves  of  the  oasis  of 
Tripoli  to  the  Suk-el-Halfa  [Haifa  Market]  with- 
out the  town. 

A  cursory  glance  at  the  Suk-el-Halfa  will  im- 
press even  the  stranger  with  the  importance  of 
the  esparto  trade,  and  a  few  words  with  any  Tri- 
politan  merchant  will  reveal  the  fact  that  not  only 
is  it  Tripoli's  leading  export,  but  in  years  of  little 

[152] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

rain  and  scant  harvest,  with  practically  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  trans-Saharan  caravan  trade,  it  is 
the  only  natural  resource  which  the  Arab  peasant 
can  fall  back  upon.  In  years  of  full  harvest  little 
halfa,  comparatively  speaking,  is  brought  into 
market,  for  Hadji  Mohamed,  having  reaped  his 
wheat  and  barley,  has  not  only  made  provision 
for  his  simple  wants  for  the  year,  but  has  even 
brought  back  from  the  town  bazaars  silver  orna- 
ments for  his  women.  Consequently  necessity 
does  not  drive  him  to  the  tedious  process  of  halfa 
gathering,  with  all  its  attendant  risks  and  the 
long  journeys  to  the  coast  on  camel  back,  so  often 
unproductive  of  satisfactory  results. 

Fsparto  is  not  an  agricultural  product,  and  it 
seems  fitting  that  the  leading  export  of  that  no- 
madic people  should  be  a  product  of  their  own 
arid  land,  wild  and  incapable  of  cultivation. 
Since  1868,  when  the  first  shipload  of  esparto  w^as 
sent  to  England,  vessels  have  borne  away  thou- 
sands of  tons  yearly  to  that  country.  You  or  I  pick 
up  a  heavy-looking  novel,  perchance,  and  marvel 
at  its  lightness,  and  the  reader  of  some  London 
newspaper  peruses  its  columns  and  then  casts 
aside  the  finished  product  of  the  esparto  pickers. 

In  1901,  which  was  an  average  year,  215,155 
[153] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

camel  loads  came  into  the  coast  towns;  nearly 
134,000  passed  through  the  gateway  to  the  Suk- 
el-Halfa,  the  total  export  of  the  country  amount- 
ing to  about  33,000  tons.  That  from  the  town 
of  Tripoh,  16,690  tons,  brought  £75,500,  which 
was  over  a  fourth  of  the  amount  of  Tripoli's 
total  exports. 

Not  ten  minutes'  trudge  through  the  sand  from 
the  heavy  battlements  which  surround  Tripoli  is 
the  big  square-walled  enclosure  of  perhaps  three 
acres — the  Suk-el-Halfa.  The  scenes  of  this 
great  suk  have  left  an  indelible  impress  on  my 
memory.  I  but  close  my  eyes  and  see  that  great 
panorama  of  the  heat,  the  sweat,  and  the  toil  float 
across  the  horizon  of  my  imagination  like  some 
vivid  mirage  of  that  far-away  Desert  land. 

One  day  I  loafed  across  the  Suk-el-Thalat  and 
followed  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  lagging  after 
some  esparto  camels  to  the  arched  gateway  of  the 
Suk-el-Halfa.  Here  the  caravan  halted  and  the 
leader  was  accosted  by  an  Arab  guard.  A  short 
parley,  and  the  guns  of  the  drivers  were  handed 
over,  and  the  leader  tucked  the  greasy  receipt  in 
a  leathern  money  pouch  beneath  his  baracan. 
Each  camel  entirely  blocked  the  gateway  as  with 
his  load  of  grass  he  passed  through.    Following 

[  154  ] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

in  their  wake  through  the  shady  portal  I  entered 
the  sun-flooded  suk.  My  first  impression  was 
of  a  great  sea  of  yellow-gray  esparto  bales,  re- 
sembling a  vast  herd  of  half-submerged  hippo- 
potami; among  them  the  cotton  garments  of  the 
negroes  flecked  white,  each  dotted  by  the  ebony 
head  of  its  wearer,  and  over  the  glaring  white 
walls  which  shut  in  the  scene  the  arches  of  some 
neighboring  buildings  seemed  to  peer  like  so 
many  curious  monster  eyes. 

Here  and  there  great  bales  poked  their  noses 
above  the  rest,  and  once  in  a  while  one  would  rise 
or  lower  as  a  camel  arose  or  was  unloaded.  In 
this  great  weighing  yard  of  the  Suk-el-Halfa, 
called  by  the  natives  rahbah,  a  simple  though 
effective  system  was  evident.  Across  its  centre 
the  suk  was  divided  by  a  fence  in  which  breaks 
occurred  at  intervals.  At  these  openings  big 
primitive  scales  had  been  erected,  the  number  of 
these  depending  on  the  number  of  buyers;  this 
year  there  were  four.  These  lever-scales  are  put 
up  at  auction,  and  public  weighers,  who  are  gen- 
erally Arabs,  weigh  up  the  nets  of  esparto  and  re- 
ceive a  certain  amount  per  hundred- weight.  On 
one  side  of  the  fence  is  the  unweighed,  on  the 
other  the  weighed,  esparto. 

[155] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Each  picker  as  he  enters  deposits  his  esparto 
in  one  lot,  which  is  auctioned  off  unweighed  to 
the  highest  bidder.  Prices  fluctuate,  due  to  the 
competition  of  the  buyers,  but  the  year  I  was  in 
TripoH  six  francs  per  hundred  kilos  was  a  fair 
price  for  the  raw  material.  When  the  bidding 
opens  in  the  early  spring,  the  competition  among 
the  buyers  is  very  keen,  reaching  sometimes  as 
high  as  £3-8s-6d  a  ton.  But  it  sometimes  hap- 
pens that  there  is  not  a  corresponding  increase 
in  its  value  in  England,  and  the  buyers  at  times 
sell  at  a  loss. 

From  the  topmost  bale  of  a  pile  of  heat-soaked 
halfa  near  one  of  the  scales  I  watched  the  day's 
work.  These  scales  were  huge  levers.  Through 
a  loop  of  coarse  rope  suspended  from  the  cross 
point  of  two  rough-hewn  beams,  a  third  hung 
lazily  balanced.  At  the  larger  end  a  chain  and 
tackle  containing  a  scale  dangled  to  the  ground. 
Near  by  the  flapping  broad-brimmed  hat  and 
officious  manner  of  an  Arab  at  once  stamped  him 
as  one  in  authority,  a  public  weigher.  By  word 
and  gesture  he  would  order  a  bale  rolled  out  from 
the  heap  where  the  owner  had  deposited  it. 

It  was  noosed  in  the  tackle;  a  yell  from  the 
weigher,   and   a  number    of   strapping    Blacks 

ri56i 


Weighing  esparto  grass  in  the  Suk-el-IIah'a 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

sprang  from  below  me  like  so  many  leopard  cats 
upon  the  other  more  slender  end  of  the  beam. 
They  held  for  a  minute  suspended  in  the  air, 
others  hung  to  their  legs,  the  great  beam  trem- 
bled, then  the  monster  bale  at  the  other  end 
slowly  began  to  lift,  and  its  human  counter- 
weight sank  gradually  to  the  ground. 

"Four  hundred- weight"  called  out  the  over- 
seer with  a  glance  at  the  scale  as  he  released  the 
tackle.  Crush !  dropped  the  huge  bale  as  it  sent 
up  a  great  puff  of  sand  dust,  which  drifted  away 
in  quiet  space,  powdering  the  shiny  skins  of  two 
Blacks.  With  remarkable  strength  they  grap- 
pled the  meshes  with  long  iron  hooks,  whirled 
and  rolled  it  beneath  the  scales  to  the  other  side 
of  the  fence,  where  another  relay  bundled  it  end 
over  end  into  its  place. 

One  cannot  sojourn  long  in  Tripoli  without 
being  impressed  that  it  is  a  land  of  ancient  tra- 
dition, a  land  where  even  to-day  only  the  mere 
fringe  of  modern  civilization  has  touched  one  or 
two  of  her  ports,  a  land  of  customs,  implements, 
and  usage  of  a  time  long  before  the  Israelites 
shook  the  dust  of  Egypt  from  their  feet. 

But  somehow  of  all  the  primitive  native  de- 
vices none  interested  me  more  than  the  great 

[157] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

rough-hewn  levers  in  the  Suk-el-Halfa.  Many 
a  time  I  diverged  from  my  objective  point  to 
watch  the  great  beams  lift  and  dip  on  their  ful- 
cra. The  timber  had  come,  perchance,  from  the 
neighboring  oasis,  but  the  idea — ?  Could  it 
have  travelled  through  the  long  reaches  of  cen- 
turies from  the  times  when  men  first  had  occasion 
to  lift  great  weights  ?  I  venture  an  opinion. 
Could  this  be  a  modification  of  the  device  by 
which  the  ancient  Semites  and  Ethiopians  raised, 
tier  upon  tier,  the  great  blocks  of  the  Pyramids 
of  Egypt  ?  Simply  constructed,  easily  shifted, 
admitting  revolving  the  weight  when  once  lifted 
through  an  arc  of  almost  170°,  it  might  well  have 
been  adapted  to  such  a  use. 

Now  that  the  esparto  is  weighed  the  Arab 
from  whom  it  was  bought  must  have  his  drivers 
load  it  again  on  to  their  camels  and  deliver  it  into 
the  private  esparto  yard  of  the  buyer.  As  each 
driver  enters  a  private  yard,  a  clerk  checks  and 
countersigns  the  ticket  given  him  in  the  Suk-el- 
Halfa;  then,  having  deposited  their  nets  in  one 
heap,  with  unloaded  camels  they  present  their 
tickets  to  the  cashier  and  are  paid.  Along  the 
outskirts  of  the  halfa  piles  I  watched  them  load 
up  the  groaning  camels. 

[158] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

Always  remonstrating,  an  occasional  beast 
more  defiant  than  the  rest  refused  to  lie  down  to 
be  loaded.  Near  me  one  vicious  brute  had  twice 
shaken  off  his  heavy  burden,  and  now  a  third 
time  had  prematurely  lurched  to  his  feet.  It 
finally  required  the  combined  efforts  of  five  men 
to  land  the  unwieldy  net  of  esparto  securely 
across  his  hump.  My  sympathies  were  with  the 
camel. 

It  was  shortly  after  one  siesta  time  that  I  ac- 
companied Signor  Cortugna  to  one  of  the  private 
esparto  yards,  of  which  he  was  manager.  As  we 
turned  into  the  main  street  of  Tripoli,  which 
leads  through  an  outer  gate,  a  man,  breathless 
and  excited,  dodged  and  jostled  through  the 
leisurely  moving  crowd,  approached  Signor  Cor- 
tugna, and  addressed  him  in  Arabic.  Signor 
Cortugna  hailed  from  their  stand,  near  the 
market  gate,  one  of  the  quaint  little  rigs,  several 
of  which  Tripoli  boasts.  "Step  in,"  he  said; 
"the  Arab  informed  me  of  an  accident  to  one  of 
my  men."  We  rattled  and  bumped  over  the 
caravan  road  to  the  esparto  yard. 

We  passed  through  the  gate  and  were  joined 
by  the  foreman,  who  led  the  way  through  lanes 
of  loose  halfa  to  a  long  inclined  structure,  over 

[159] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

which  from  sunrise  to  sunset  during  baling  peri- 
ods an  endless  traveller  with  its  ceaseless  noise 
conveyed  the  sorted  esparto  to  the  upper  floor  of 
a  two-story  building. 

Now  a  deathless  silence  hung  over  the  scene, 
which  but  an  hour  ago  was  alive  with  the  drone 
of  industry.  The  foreman  stopped  at  a  pit  at 
the  base  of  the  traveller  in  which  a  Black  con- 
stantly watches  and  controls  the  endless  chain. 
A  few  remnants  of  cloth  left  in  the  cogs  were 
least  among  the  evidences  which  told  of  a  lapse 
of  vigilance  or  a  moment's  dozing  on  the  part  of 
the  lone  watcher  in  the  heat  and  din  of  the  nar- 
row pit. 

Followed  by  several  Blacks  we  turned  away 
from  the  sickening  sight.  A  woman's  moan 
floated  out  from  a  distant  part  of  the  yard ;  as  it 
rose  and  fell  other  women  added  their  wails  to 
the  crescendo  in  a  great  pitiful  cry  to  Allah  for 
the  dead,  as  the  good  and  the  bad  angels  con- 
tested for  the  soul.  In  a  low-lying  shed,  an  old 
sack  for  a  shroud,  lay  what  remained  of  the  poor 
fellow. 

We  were  not  Mohammedans,  and  Signor  Cor- 
tugna  paused  respectfully  at  the  entrance.  The 
voices  hushed,  the  women  from  under  their  col- 

[160] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

ored  striped  baracans  and  some  of  the  half-naked 
men  glared  savagely. 

It  is  the  law  of  the  country  to  bury  the  dead  by 
sundown.  As  the  big  piles  of  halfa  cast  lengthen- 
ing shadows  across  the  yard,  the  orange  glow  of 
the  sunlight  played  over  four  dignified  figures 
who  strode  away  with  the  bier  of  their  tribes- 
man, on  to  his  shallow  grave  by  their  village  in 
the  oasis.  So  majestic  was  their  mien,  so  classic 
were  the  graceful  folds  of  their  tattered  garments, 
that  visions  of  some  ancient  Greek  borne  to  his 
funeral  pyre  ranged  across  my  vision,  and  the 
guttural  unintelligible  funeral  chant  sang  to  my 
ears: 

"  Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse 

Singing'together.  ^ 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorps. 

Each  in  its  tether. 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared  for  till  cock-crow: 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again, 

Rimming  the  rock-row." 

It  was  a  weird  scene  full  of  barbaric  pathos; 
but  rattle,  rattle,  and  the  endless  chain  of  the 
great  traveller  again  revolved  with  its  cold  metal- 
lic clink,  and  again  some  hundred  Blacks  took 
up  their  work.  Not  the  chocolate-colored  hy- 
brid of  our  land,  but  great  powerful  savages  these, 

[161] 


The  gateway  to  the  sahara 

with  white,  glistening  teeth  and  cheeks  scarred 
with  the  marks  of  their  tribe  or  their  servitude; 
men  with  skins  of  ebony  as  polished  as  patent 
leather,  down  which  rolled  great  beads  of  per- 
spiration. Any  day  they  might  forsake  their 
palm-thatched  zerebas  in  the  oasis  for  the  jungles 
of  the  Sudan  from  whence  they  came. 

The  simple  white  cotton  clothes  predominated, 
but  many  wore  nondescript  rags  and  garments  of 
colored  stripes  which,  with  the  bright  notes  of  the 
red  fezzes  spotting  here  and  there  among  the 
esparto  hats,  served  to  enhance  the  color  setting 
of  the  scene. 

From  the  great  heaps  of  loose  esparto  where 
the  Arab  pickers  had  deposited  it,  some  of  the 
Blacks  with  crude  short-handled  forks  pitched  it 
into  high  windrows.  Along  these,  in  irregular 
order,  others  sorted  it  into  three  qualities — hand- 
picked,  average,  and  third,  the  qualities  depend- 
ing on  the  length  and  condition  of  the  grass;  at 
the  same  time  all  roots,  stones,  and  foreign  sub- 
stances were  discarded.  Then  the  grass  which 
had  been  thoroughly  dried  was  ready  for  baling. 
My  use  of  sketch-book  and  camera  caused  some 
of  the  sorters  to  show  an  ugly  disposition,  and 
even  after  I  was  joined  by  Signor  Cortugna,  who 

[162] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

motioned  them  to  get  about  their  work,  their 
vengeful  eyes  leered  maliciously  as  they  paused 
again  at  my  approach. 

In  the  yards  as  in  the  fields  the  esparto  work- 
ers are  in  danger  of  the  scorpion  and  the  viper. 
"Their  bite  seldom  proves  fatal,"  explained 
Signor  Cortugna,  "for  we  have  medicine  and 
treatment  ready  at  hand.  But  I  have  never  seen 
one  of  my  Blacks  kill  a  scorpion,  for  these  fellows, 
like  the  Arabs,  say,  '  There  is  a  compact  between 
us,  and  if  we  do  not  kill  them  they  will  not  kill  us.' 
I  have  seen  an  Arab  take  a  scorpion  as  I  would 
take  a  cigarette,  but  then  they  know  how  to  hold 
them,  and  I  notice  they  always  pick  them  up 
after  they  have  struck  at  something.  This  is  not 
a  land  of  plenty  and  there  are  few  things  that  the 
Arab  does  not  put  to  some  use,  and  so  with 
brother  scorpion — he  sometimes  eats  him. 

"But  we  must  move  along  if  we  would  see  our 
new  Manchester-built  hydraulic  presses  baling 
up  the  grass,"  and  we  went  up  the  traveller  on 
a  pile  of  halfa,  stepping  out  on  the  upper  floor 
of  the  well-built  two-storied  building.  This  had 
superseded  some  sheds  in  a  corner  of  the  yard 
under  which  were  discarded  old  hand-presses. 
Here  the  thoroughly  sorted  and  cured  halfa  had 

[163] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

been  deposited  and  was  being  pitched  into  a  deep 
twelve-foot  pit  at  one  end  of  the  loft,  where  an 
Arab  and  two  Blacks  grunted  and  bobbed  in 
unison  as  they  trod  down  the  grass  into  a  big  case. 
When  it  was  full,  at  a  given  signal  they  drew  up 
their  legs  and  hung  suspended,  while  the  case 
below  swung  its  cargo  of  esparto  under  one  of 
the  heavy  presses. 

Down  came  a  pressure  of  six  hundred  tons, 
mashing  the  grass  into  a  hard-packed  bale  of  six 
and  a  quarter  hundred-weight.  While  the  great 
jaws  of  the  machine  held  it  at  this  tension,  strong 
steel  bands  were  quickly  strapped  about  it ;  then, 
rolled  off  and  weighed,  it  lay  ready  for  ship- 
ment. 

Work  in  the  esparto  yards  begins  at  six  in  the 
morning  and  ends  at  six  at  night,  with  a  midday 
rest;  but  during  Ramadan,  when  all  Mohamme- 
dans fast  through  the  day,  the  Blacks  prefer  to 
work  from  six  until  five  without  let  or  sup.  And 
now,  as  the  lurid  sun  disk  painted  red  the  inter- 
stices of  the  tracery  of  the  date-palms  which 
feathered  over  the  neighboring  walls,  the  rattle 
of  the  great  baling  press  ceased,  and  down  the 
long  w^indrows  the  workers  seemed  to  be  con- 
verging in  a  human  vortex  toward  one  point — 

[  164] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

the  quarters  of  the  cashier.  Here  the  clerks  and 
foremen,  who  received  from  two  shillings  and 
sixpence  to  four  shillings  a  day,  had  already  been 
paid,  and  some  of  the  pressmen  their  fifteen  and 
eighteen  pence. 

I  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  this  virile  crowd. 
They  seemed  to  surcharge  the  very  atmosphere 
with  a  sense  of  healthy  animalism  and  good  nat- 
ure, under  all  of  which  I  well  knew  lay  the  fierce 
and  cruel  nature  of  the  savage.  One  by  one  they 
were  rapidly  paid  off,  great  burly  carriers  col- 
lected each  his  ten  pence,  and  at  last  a  lone  sorter 
tucked  into  a  bit  of  lizard  skin  his  meagre  eight 
pence,  then  hurried  on  out  through  the  gate. 

I  watched  the  gray  herd  patter  through  its 
cloud  of  sand  dust  until  it  lost  itself  toward  the 
oasis  in  the  dusk  of  the  coming  night.  I  knew 
that  it  would  wind  a  short  half-mile  through  the 
shadows  of  the  palm  groves,  and  empty  into  its 
native  village — then  each  man  to  his  own  com- 
pound which  enclosed  his  zerebas.  Here  little 
balls  of  ebony  with  ivory  settings  would  tumble 
laughingly  to  greet  him.  The  aroma  of  the  coos- 
coos  would  make  his  broad,  flat  nostrils  dilate  as 
he  neared  his  hut  and  his  wives — black  wenches 
these,  with  the  heavy  crescents  of  silver  sagging 

[165] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

from  their  ears,  and  perchance  a  piece  of  red 
coral  shoved  through  a  nostril. 

While  most  of  the  tribe  work  in  the  esparto 
yards,  many  find  employment  in  and  about  the 
town.  They  live  after  the  manner  of  the  life  in 
the  interior  from  whence  they  had  drifted  across 
the  Great  Desert.  Under  a  marabout  they  con- 
form to  their  tribal  laws  and  customs. 

But  a  few  days  previous,  accompanied  by  my 
man  Bringali,  a  hybrid  native  of  Sudanese  and 
Arab  stock,  I  had  wandered  along  the  paths  of 
their  village,  hard  packed  by  the  tread  of  many 
feet,  and  had  ventured  here  and  there  a  peep 
into  a  compound.  Discretion  prevented  me 
from  seeking  a  crawling  entrance  to  their  primi- 
tive dwellings.  I  well  knew  that  jealous  eyes 
were  peering  out  from  the  small,  dark  openings 
of  the  hive-shaped,  palm-thatched  huts,  and 
vicious  dogs  with  an  undeveloped  sense  of  dis- 
crimination lurked  in  unexpected  places.  It  is 
not  the  safest  thing  for  a  stranger  to  enter  their 
village  alone,  as  can  be  attested  to  by  a  German, 
who  recently  nearly  paid  with  his  life  the  penalty 
of  idle  curiosity. 

I  parted  from  Signor  Cortugna  near  where  the 
mosque  of  Sidi  Hamet  backs  into  the  bazaars, 

[166] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

and  turned  down  the  Arbar-Arsat  to  my  lokanda. 
In  the  quiet  of  the  African  night,  from  under  the 
great  date-palms  far  out  beyond  the  town,  the 
hoarse  bark  of  a  wolfhound  drifted  in,  and  once 
a  soft  Desert  wind  wafted  from  the  negro  village, 
the  faint,  distant  sounds  of  the  barbaric  clink  of 
steel  cymbals,  of  the  thrumming  gimbreh,  and, 
above  all,  the  hoarse,  wild  shouts  of  wilder  men, 
and  I  knew  that  the  hoodoo  and  dance  were  on. 
Then  I  fell  asleep,  to  dream  of  great  fires  which 
cast  gaunt,  fluttering  shadows  of  whirling,  fren- 
zied savages  into  the  darkness  of  the  palm  groves. 

A  dark  spot  on  the  horizon,  a  graduated  fume 
of  trailing  smoke,  and  the  incoming  steamer  for 
the  time  being  furnished  an  animated  topic  of 
conversation  among  Tripoli's  little  business  and 
social  world,  isolated  as  it  is  far  south  from  the 
highways  of  the  Mediterranean.  Not  until  she 
drops  anchor  off  the  esparto  jetty  and  her  mis- 
sion is  known  does  Tripoli  settle  back  to  its 
lakoom  and  coffee. 

The  entire  halfa  crop  is  carried  in  British  bot- 
toms to  the  United  Kingdom.  So  far  as  I  could 
ascertain  only  one  bark  had  ever  cleared  for  the 
United  States,  and  that  for  New  York.    Within 

[167] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  remembrance  of  Mr.  Vice-Consul  Dickson 
of  Great  Britain  only  a  bark  and  a  sloop  from 
America  have  ever  made  port  here.  The  sloop 
brought  petroleum. 

Before  the  esparto  is  shipped  from  the  yards 
all  dampness  must  be  thoroughly  dried  out,  and 
often  when  it  is  held  over  through  the  rainy  sea- 
son, is  reopened  for  that  purpose.  Not  only  does 
dampness  cause  the  halfa  to  rot,  but  increases 
the  danger  of  spontaneous  combustion,  as  was 
the  case  in  the  cargo  of  the  Ben  Ledi  of  North 
Shields,  which,  under  full  steam  from  Zleiten, 
suddenly  made  her  appearance  off  Tripoli  and 
signalled  for  assistance,  which  was  rendered  by 
the  Turks. 

The  heavy  bales  are  transported  from  the 
yards  on  two- wheeled  carts  drawn  by  horses,  and 
then  dumped  on  the  stone  jetty,  which  is  suffer- 
ing greatly  from  the  action  of  the  sea  waves  and 
the  inaction  of  the  Turkish  authorities.  Here 
government  dues  of  twenty  paras  [two  cents]  a 
bale  are  levied,  as  the  wharf  is  government 
property. 

Often  I  have  sat  on  the  hard-packed  bales 
which  lined  the  jetty  and  watched  Arab  and 
Black  stevedores  hook  the  cumbersome  weights 

[168] 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

aboard  ponderous  lighters  which  had  been 
warped  alongside. 

Transporting  from  the  shore  to  steamer  under 
sunny  skies  and  on  summer  seas  has  a  certain 
monotony.  But  when  the  wind  and  the  storm 
rip  across  the  Mediterranean  from  the  north, 
and  whip  the  great  yeasty  combers  across  the 
reef  rocks  of  Tripoli,  it  ill  becomes  the  lubber  or 
man  of  little  nerve  to  make  venturesome  trips  in 
the  heavily  loaded  unwieldy  lighters.  Occa- 
sionally a  barge  is  swamped,  which  is  not  par- 
ticularly disastrous  to  the  stevedores,  all  of  whom 
can  swim  like  ducks ;  but  when  a  lighter  rolling 
and  lurching  turns  turtle  it  is  a  more  serious 
matter,  for  then  with  a  sudden  lurch  the  cargo 
shifts,  and  without  warning  the  great  ponderous 
lighter  turns  bottom  up,  sending  hundreds  of  tons 
of  esparto  bales  crushing  down  upon  the  crew, 
and  fortunate  is  he  who  may  appear  bobbing  to 
the  surface. 

The  steel  hooks  used  by  the  stevedores  are 
charged  up  to  each  vessel  on  account  of  the  pro- 
pensity of  the  natives  to  steal  everything  they  can 
carry  away.  On  one  occasion  they  knocked  off 
or  unscrewed  all  the  brasses  which  locked  the 
ports  of  a  converted  passenger  steamer.    These 

[169] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

trinkets  proved  expensive  luxuries,  and  a  few 
days  afterward  found  all  concerned  imprisoned 
within  the  grim  walls  of  the  Castle  of  the 
Bashaws. 

A  striking  instance  of  a  man  hanging  himself 
by  his  own  rope  was  that  of  a  stevedore  who, 
down  in  the  dark  hold  of  an  esparto  vessel,  came 
across  a  short  length  of  chain.  Stripping  him- 
self to  the  waist,  he  wound  the  steely  links  round 
and  round  his  black  body,  and,  donning  his  shirt 
again,  appeared  on  deck  and  started  to  descend 
over  the  side  of  the  lighter.  Splash!  Men  ran 
to  the  side  of  the  rolling  half-emptied  barge — 
a  column  of  spray  and  some  bubbles,  that  was 
all.  When  they  found  him  he  lay  anchored  se- 
curely by  his  prize  down  among  the  sponges 
and  sea-coral. 

Forty-five  years  ago  the  trade  of  Tripoli  was 
diminishing,  chiefly  owing  to  the  suppression  of 
the  slave  trade  with  the  interior  by  which  the 
Turkish  markets  were  supplied.  This  was  a  lu- 
crative form  of  investment  to  the  Arab  merchants 
and  others;  but  as  the  great  caravans  with  their 
black,  human  merchandise  grew  scarcer  and 
scarcer,  there  sprang  up  a  larger,  more  important 
traflSc  between  the  Sudan  and  Tripoli,  in  which 

[170] 


A  Black  sheik 


THE  ESPARTO  PICKERS 

Manchester  goods  were  bartered  for  gold,  ivory, 
and  feathers.  But  the  profits  of  this  soon  began 
to  leak  out  by  the  way  of  the  new  water  routes 
from  the  Sudan  to  the  east  and  west  coasts. 

Already  the  esparto  trade  had  come  to  the 
front  and  to-day  it  is  Tripoli's  leading  export. 
But  back  in  the  jebel  the  halfa  picker  still  with 
ruthless  short-sightedness  tears  and  rips  it  root 
and  all  from  the  sandy  wastes.  Each  successive 
year  now  entails  longer  journeys  to  the  coast, 
with  increased  labor  and  cost  of  transportation. 
Each  year  brings  smaller  returns,  three  pounds 
per  ton  being  the  selling  price  in  England  as  com- 
pared with  twelve  pounds  of  former  times. 

A  decreasing  demand  for  esparto  grass  has 
followed  the  introduction  of  wood  pulp  into 
England  from  North  America  and  Norway, 
naturally  resulting  in  a  decreased  value  in  the 
English  market.  And  many  pickers  have  pre- 
ferred to  leave  the  gathered  grass  to  the  sun  and 
the  sand-storm  to  transporting  it  at  little  profit 
and,  perhaps,  loss.  Not  many  years  hence  will, 
in  all  likelihood,  see  the  passing  of  the  esparto 
trade  of  Tripoli,  of  a  labor  big  and  primitive,  of 
swarthy  Arabs,  heavily  burdened  camels,  and 
sweating  Black  men.    A  few  camel  loads  of  halfa 

[171] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

will  now  and  again  be  brought  into  Tripoli, 
Misurata,  and  other  coast  towns,  to  be  used  in  the 
weft  of  mats,  and  for  shoes,  hats,  and  cordage; 
and,  perchance,  the  traveller  may  now  and  then 
meet  one  or  two  lone  esparto  pickers,  as  with 
empty  nets  thrown  over  the  camels'  humps  in 
front  of  them,  they  lurch,  lurch,  homeward  to 
the  plateau  lands  of  the  jebel  where  the  wild  grass 
and  the  sand  lily  nod  to  the  Desert  breezes  of 
the  South. 


[m] 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THE    CARAVAN    TRADE 

STRAGGLING  down  here  and  there  into  the 
Desert  from  some  of  the  important  towns  of 
the  North  African  coast,  go  the  trade  routes  of 
the  caravans.  But  it  is  the  town  of  Tripoli,  low- 
lying  and  white,  shimmering  under  the  hot  Afri- 
can sun  in  her  setting  of  palm  gardens,  which  is 
the  nearest  coast  port  north  of  the  Sudan ;  conse- 
quently it  has  become  the  natural  gateway  to  the 
Sahara,  the  northern  focus  of  the  three  great 
caravan  routes  which  stretch  away  south.  The 
sun-scorched  surface  of  the  Sahara  with  its  sand- 
hills and  oases,  mountain  ranges  and  plateaus,  is 
greater  in  area  by  some  half  million  miles  than 
the  United  States  and  Alaska  combined,  and  is 
peopled  by  some  three  to  four  millions  of  Berbers, 
Arabs,  and  Blacks,  with  a  few  Turkish  garrisons 
in  the  north.  By  way  of  Ghadames,  Ghat,  and 
Murzuk,  through  the  Fezzan  to  Lake  Chad,  go 
the  caravan  trails,  and  then  far  away  south  again, 

[173] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

south  to  that  country  called  the  Sudan,  Land  of 
the  Blacks.  Here  its  teeming  millions  form  the 
great  negro  states  of  Bambara,  Timbuktu,  and 
Hausaland  in  the  west;  Bornu  and  Baghermi 
around  Lake  Chad;  Wadi,  Darfur,  and  Kordu- 
fan  in  the  east,  extending  from  Abyssinia  to  the 
Gulf  of  Guinea. 

Of  these  trails,  their  trade,  and  the  men  who 
escort  the  heavily  loaded  caravans  little  enough 
has  been  said;  still  less  of  the  innumerable  dan- 
gers which  constantly  beset  them  as  they  creep 
their  way  across  the  burning  desolate  wastes,  on 
their  long  journeys  to  the  great  marts  of  the  Su- 
dan,— Timbuktu,  Kano,  Kanem,  Kuka,  Bornu, 
and  Wadi. 

South-west  from  Tripoli,  twenty  days  as  the 
camel  travels,  on  the  direct  route  from  Tripoli 
to  Timbuktu,  lies  the  little  sun-baked  town  of 
Ghadames,  which  has  figured  largely  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  caravan  trade  with  the  interior. 
From  Ghadames  also  runs  the  route  to  the  Sudan 
by  way  of  Ghat;  so,  by  reason  of  her  location, 
Ghadames  erected  fonduks  and  became  a  stop- 
ping place  for  caravans,  and  her  merchants, 
pioneers  of  the  caravan  trade. 

Many  years  ago  they  established  themselves  in 
[174] 


c 


Q 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

the  town  of  Tripoli,  with  agents  at  Ghat  and  the 
big  trading  posts  in  the  far  Sudan.  To  these 
caravans  conveyed  periodically  large  consign- 
ments of  goods  which  were  exchanged  for  ivory, 
ostrich  feathers,  and  gold-dust,  to  be  sold  in  Tri- 
poli, and  eventually,  in  the  form  of  finished  prod- 
ucts, to  enhance  the  wealth  and  display  of 
Europe.  Through  their  superior  intelligence  and 
honesty  the  merchants  of  Ghadames  enjoyed  for 
many  years  the  monopoly  of  the  trade  which  they 
had  created. 

But  the  Tripoli  merchants  could  not  indefi- 
nitely withhold  their  hands  from  a  trade  within 
their  grasp  and  upon  which  the  commercial  pros- 
perity of  their  own  city  depended.  However,  it 
was  not  until  some  thirty  years  ago  that  they 
seriously  entered  into  competition  with  the 
Ghadamsene.  At  times  large  profits  are  reaped, 
but  frequently  enormous  losses  are  entailed — not 
so  much  through  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  Euro- 
pean market  as  through  the  dangers  en  route,  in 
which  attacks  and  pillage  by  Desert  robbers,  and 
reprisals  to  make  good  losses  incurred  by  tribal 
warfare,  play  no  small  part. 

The  merchants  who  fit  out  a  garfla  must  stand 
all  losses ;  consequently  great  care  is  given  to  the 

[175] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

selection  of  both  the  camels  which  carry  the  val- 
uable merchandise  and  the  men  who  accompany 
them.  The  respect  paid  to  the  adventurous  car- 
avaneer  is  no  small  criterion  of  the  fatigues  and 
dangers  which  attend  the  traveller.  Caravans 
vary  in  size,  from  that  of  some  lone  nomadic 
trader  or  esparto  picker,  who  trudges  beside  his 
few  camels  on  his  way  to  some  local  market,  to 
the  great  trans-Saharan  trade  caravans  with 
thousands  of  camels,  not  to  mention  donkeys, 
goats,  sheep,  and  dogs.  Such  a  caravan  is  rarely 
met  with;  it  takes  a  year  or  more  to  outfit; 
thousands  of  dollars  are  invested  by  Arabs  and 
Jewish  merchants.  Its  numerical  strength  is  in- 
creased by  smaller  caravans,  whose  sheiks,  be- 
lieving in  the  safety  of  numbers,  often  delay  their 
own  departure  for  months. 

Moving  south  from  Tripoli,  it  must  cover  some 
fifteen  hundred  miles  of  arid  Desert  before  it 
reaches  one  of  the  important  marts  of  the  Sudan. 

After  numerous  stops  and  leaving  many  ani- 
mals and  some  men  to  the  vultures,  the  caravan, 
if  fortunate,  reaches  its  destination.  In  its  heavy 
loads  are  packed  the  heterogeneous  goods  gener- 
ally taken,  consisting  of  cotton  and  wool,  cloth, 
waste  silk,  yarn,  box  rings,  beads,  amber,  paper, 

[176] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

sugar,  drugs,  and  tea,  of  which  British  cotton 
goods  form  more  than  fifty  per  cent,  of  the  value. 
Besides  these  it  carries  some  native  products. 
This  cargo  is  bartered  for  the  products  of  the 
Sudan:  skins,  ivory,  ostrich  feathers,  guinea 
corn,  and  gold-dust.  Every  autumn  caravans 
also  arrive  from  the  interior  and  return  with 
dried  dates;  for,  among  the  tribes  of  the  Fezzan, 
Tripoli  dates  form  the  chief  article  of  diet,  and  in 
the  oases  of  the  Desert,  dates  chopped  with  straw 
are  used  as  fodder.  A  year,  perhaps,  after  its 
arrival  it  begins  the  return  voyage,  with  a  cargo 
likely  enough  amounting  to  nearly  a  million  dol- 
lars in  value;  and  it  is  a  gamble  whether  it  ever 
reaches  Tripoli. 

The  tall,  swift,  riding  camel  known  as  the 
mehari  is  seldom  met  with  in  Northern  Tripoli. 
The  finest  male  draught  camels,  the  jamal 
costing  from  $50  to  $60  apiece,  with  a  carrying 
capacity  of  about  three  hundred-weight,  are 
used  for  transport.  From  consumption  or  the 
effects  of  the  long  strain  scores  often  die  by  the 
way,  and  many  others  at  the  end  of  the  "voyage." 
The  wages  of  the  men  for  conducting  a  return 
cargo  are  sometimes  as  high  as  five  thousand 
dollars.     Not  only  must  the  garfla  sheiks  have 

[177] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

great  courage  and  endurance,  but  must  be  trust- 
worthy and  shrewd  traders,  diplomats  of  no 
small  calibre.  Many  of  the  sultans  and  chiefs, 
particularly  the  Tuaregs,  through  whose  terri- 
tories lie  the  garfla  routes,  exact  not  only  hom- 
age but  tribute  from  the  garfla  sheiks.  To  bring 
this  tribute  within  a  reasonable  sum  and  secure 
a  safe  conduct  requires  extraordinary  skill  and 
tact.  The  opportunities  for  dishonesty  afforded 
the  garfla  men  are  many,  and  occasionally  men 
and  goods  are  never  heard  from  again. 

Preliminary  to  making  up  an  outfit  for  trav- 
elling in  the  Tripolitan  Sahara,  a  firman  [pass- 
port] from  the  Porte  at  Constantinople  is  con- 
sidered necessary;  but  this,  if  eventually  ob- 
tained, takes  time,  even  years. 

The  influence  of  friends  and  the  courtesy  of 
Redjed  Pasha  circumvented  this  difl&culty,  and 
the  privilege  to  travel  sans  -firman  was  rather  re- 
luctantly extended  to  m,e  by  his  Excellency,  after 
I  had  told  him  the  exact  ground  I  wished  to 
cover.  This  was  not  by  any  means  easily  secured, 
owing  in  part  to  the  indiscretion  of  the  last  Euro- 
pean traveller,  a  German  who  had  abused  this 
privilege  two  years  before.     This  man  had  di- 

[178] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

verged  from  the  route  over  which  he  had  asked 
permission  to  travel,  which  breach  of  faith  led 
him  into  serious  difficulty.  It  reached  the  ears 
of  Redjed  Pasha,  who  declared  he  would  not 
again  allow  a  foreigner  to  travel  beyond  the 
oasis  of  Tripoli. 

The  next  thing  was  to  secure  that  great  essen- 
tial to  the  traveller  in  Oriental  countries — a  re- 
liable dragoman.  A  dragoman  generally  fills  the 
position  of  head  servant  and  guide,  superintend- 
ing all  meals,  and  to  a  great  extent,  making 
arrangements  at  fondiiks,  and  is  directly  respon- 
sible to  his  employer  for  the  character  and  good 
behavior  of  the  other  men.  Many  Arabs  there 
were-  in  the  town  who  would  gladly  have  risked 
•  the  dangers  of  the  Desert  as  dragomans,  but  as  my 
object  was  to  obtain  information  of  Desert  life, 
a  man  who  could  act  also  as  an  interpreter  was 
indispensable:  and  Muraiche,  an  Arab  about 
sixty  years  old,  proved  to  be  the  only  available 
man.  It  is  true  that  he  had  an  unsavory  record ; 
and  I  was  so  warned  by  members  of  the  little 
English  colony  there.  But  his  broken  English 
and  lingua  Franca  were  valuable  assets ;  besides, 
forewarned  is  forearmed,  so  it  came  about  that 
Muraiche  became  my  dragoman. 

[179] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

He  soon  picked  two  other  men.  One,  by  the 
name  of  AH,  was  an  Arab  of  the  lower  class.  He 
was  a  supple,  wiry  fellow  and,  on  the  whole, 
willing  and  good-tempered.  The  other,  Mo- 
hammed by  name,  was  of  mixed  Arab  and  Ber- 
ber stock,  heavy  and  muscular — and  predis- 
posed to  rest. 

One  morning  found  us  at  Mohtar  Haarnsh's, 
the  horse  trader,  whose  stable  faces  the  Suk-el- 
Thalet.  Mohtar  was  the  embodiment  of  all  that 
a  horse  trader  should  be,  with  a  little  more  thrown 
in,  for,  like  his  twin  brother,  he  had  six  fingers  on 
his  left  hand. 

A  number  of  horses  were  brought  out  and  run 
up  and  down  the  sand  stretch  of  the  Suk.  Moh- 
tar's  boy,  at  my  request,  mounted  one  and  was 
forthwith  deposited  in  the  sand.  I  finally  se- 
lected two  horses  and  a  large,  fast-walking  pack 
donkey ;  then,  proceeding  to  Riley's  house,  a  con- 
tract was  drawn  up  and  the  men  and  animals 
hired.  Before  I  left  Tripoli — taking  Muraiche 
with  me — I  deposited  all  my  money  in  my  friend's 
safe.  I  advanced  Muraiche  half  his  wages,  tell- 
ing him  to  carry  enough  with  him  to  meet  our 
expenses  and  for  me.  to  borrow  in  case  of  need. 

A  caravan  was  to  start  on  the  morrow  at  the 
[180] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

first  hour  [sunset],  and  at  an  appointed  time  I 
rode  down  the  Suk-el-Turc,  through  the  Castle 
Gate,  and  headed  for  the  Fondilk-el-Burka, 
where  the  camels  were  being  loaded. 

Groaning,  grunting,  wheezing,  and  bubbling, 
the  last  camel  of  the  caravan  was  loaded.  His 
driver,  a  Black  from  Hausaland,  took  an  extra  hitch 
in  a  rope;  in  silhouette  against  the  lurid  after- 
glow the  camel  moved  through  the  Tripoli  fon- 
duk  gate,  resembling  a  hair  mattress  on  stilts. 

With  my  own  Arabs  I  brought  up  the  rear. 
Another  long  shadow  merged  itself  into  those  of 
my  horses  and  men,  and  a  keen-eyed,  well- 
armed  Arab,  Rais  Mohamed  Ga-wah-je,  leader 
of  the  caravan,  b'slaamed  to  my  Arabs  and  rode 
on.  No  fiery  barb  carried  this  man  of  the  Desert, 
but  a  little  pattering  donkey.  Soon  he  was  lost 
among  the  camels  and  dust. 

Passing  through  the  suburb  of  Sciara-el-Sciut 
we  were  well  into  the  oasis  of  Tripoli,  a  five-mile 
tongue  of  date-palms  along  the  coast  at  the  edge 
of  the  Desert.  Under  their  protecting  shade  lie 
gardens  and  wells  by  which  they  are  irrigated. 
In  this  oasis  lies  the  town  of  Tripoli.  It  is  be- 
yond this  oasis  that  the  Turks  object  to  any 
stranger  passing  lest  he  may  be  robbed  or  killed 

[181] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

by  scattered  tribes  which  the  Turkish  garrisons 
cannot  well  control — or  become  too  interested  in 
the  country.  Safety  over  part  of  my  route  was 
doubly  secure,  for  Hadji  Mufta,  a  Tripoline 
acquaintance,  had  spoken  to  his  friend,  Rais 
Ga-wah-je,  and  I  was  assured  of  all  the  hospi- 
tality and  protection  which  these  nomads  could 
offer — that  is,  after  we  had  broken  bread  to- 
gether. Mohamed  Ga-wah-je  was  among  the 
most  trusted  of  these  leaders,  having  at  times 
conveyed  large  sums  of  money  along  the  dan- 
gerous coast  routes  to  Bengazi,  and  it  was  a  com- 
mon thing  for  him  to  carry  £1,000  or  more  in 
gold  for  Mr.  Arbib,  Nahoum,  and  other  leading 
Tripoli  esparto  merchants  for  their  branch 
houses  in  Khoms  and  Zleiten. 

So  one  August  night  I  found  myself  a  part  of 
a  Saharan  caravan,  one  of  the  vertebrae  of  a  mon- 
ster sand  snake  which  wormed  its  way  through 
the  oasis  of  Tripoli  toward  the  Great  Desert. 
The  distorted  shape  of  the  moon  bulged  over  the 
horizon  through  a  silent  forest  of  palm  groves; 
the  transitional  moment  between  twilight  and 
moonlight  passed,  the  heavy  dew  had  already 
begun  to  cool  the  night,  and  the  garj3a  had  struck 

its  gait. 

[182] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

Across  the  moonlit  roadway  stretched  the  long 
shadows  of  the  date-palms  lifting  and  wriggling 
themselves  over  the  great  dun-colored  camels 
and  their  heavy  loads,  over  little  trudging  don- 
keys, goats,  and  sheep,  over  the  swarthy  figures  of 
men,  some  heavy  covered  in  their  gray  or  white 
baracans,  some  half  naked,  a  law  unto  them- 
selves, its  power  vested  in  their  crooked  knives, 
knobbed  clubs,  and  long  flint-locks  whose  sil- 
vered trimmings  caught  the  moon  glint,  as  in  the 
distance  they  scintillated  away  like  scattered 
fireflies. 

Silently  the  great  snake  moved  on,  save  as 
some  hungry  camel  snatched  at  the  cactus  hedge 
and  gurgled  a  defiant  protest  as  its  driver  bela- 
bored it  about  the  head;  or  as  the  oboes  and 
tom-toms  in  barbaric  strains  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  night.  Then,  to  ease  the  march  or  soothe 
the  restless  animals,  the  garfla  men  from  time  to 
time  would  take  up  the  wild  peculiar  chant,  with 
its  emphasized  second  beat,  and  the  songs  of 
brave  deeds  in  love  or  war  would  echo  through 
the  palm  groves  far  off  on  the  Desert  sands. 
We  passed  Malaha,  a  chott  [dried  lake]  where 
salt  is   obtained.    About    midnight    the    garfla 

halted. 

[183] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

"Fonduk-el-Tajura,"  remarked  one  of  our 
men.    Here  we  made  our  first  halt. 

Serving  as  places  of  rest  and  protection,  and  in 
some  cases  supply  depots,  the  importance  of  the 
fondiik  to  caravans  and  the  trade  is  inestimable. 
These  are  usually  rectangular  enclosures  with 
arcades  along  the  sides  and  open  in  the  centre, 
surrounded  by  the  palm  and  olive  gardens  of  the 
keeper,  who  may  supply  fresh  fruits,  vegetables, 
and  other  domestic  products.  There  is  one  en- 
trance protected  by  heavy  doors,  which  are 
barred  at  night.  Usually,  either  town  or  coun- 
try caravansaries  occur  so  frequently  on  the 
trails  that  long,  forced  marches  are  seldom  nec- 
essary. About  four  cents  per  head  is  charged  for 
camels  and  a  nominal  price  for  goats  and  sheep : 
at  fonduks  green  fodder  and  other  supplies  may 
generally  be  obtained. 

Fonduk-el-Tajura  was  typical  of  those  found 
throughout  North  Africa.  The  impatient  beasts, 
hungry  and  eager  to  seek  relief  from  their  heavy 
loads,  tried  to  jam  through  the  single  portal  wide 
enough  for  but  one  camel  and  its  burden.  All 
was  dust  and  confusion.  Midst  yells,  curses, 
and  *'hike,  hikes,"  their  drivers  sought  to  extri- 
cate the  animals  or  save  the  goods  from  being 

[184] 


"3      M 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

ripped  from  the  loads.  The  inside  of  the  fonduk 
was  a  square  open  enclosure  bordered  by  a  cov- 
ered arcade  as  a  protection  for  the  men  in  the 
rainy  season.  When  all  were  in,  the  heavy  doors 
were  closed  and  barred  against  marauders.  All 
about  me  the  great  beasts  were  dropping  to  the 
earth,  remonstrating  and  groaning  as  vigorously 
as  when  they  were  loaded.  The  packs  taken  off, 
their  saddles  were  carefully  removed  and  scoured 
with  sand,  for  the  hump  must  be  kept  clean, 
healthy,  and  free  from  saddle  sores. 

The  camels  were  soon  given  their  green  fod- 
der, which  at  fonduks  generally  consists  of  fooa 
[madder-top  roots]  or  barley,  the  ksub  [guinea 
corn],  or  bishna  [millet],  while  that  cheapest  and 
almost  indispensable  food,  the  date,  finds  its  way 
to  the  mouths  of  men  and  beasts.  The  mainstay 
of  the  caravan  men  is  dried  dates  and  bread 
made  with  guinea  corn. 

On  long  voyages  the  day's  fare  is  often  con- 
sumed on  the  march,  and  halts  at  such  times  are 
made  only  to  rest  and  feed  the  camels.  At  fon- 
duks or  oases  longer  stops  are  made;  there 
groups  of  men  may  be  seen  squatting  about  a  big 
wooden  bowl  of  bazine  or  coos-coos,  their  na- 
tional dishes,  made  chiefly  of  cereals. 

[185] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

The  quick-moving  form  of  Ga-wah-je  ap- 
peared here  and  there  with  the  manner  of  a  man 
used  to  command,  and  after  he  had  brought  out 
of  the  confusion  an  informal  order,  I  had  an  op- 
portunity to  meet  my  host.  Under  the  portal  of 
the  fondilk  a  charcoal  fire  glowed  red  in  an 
earthen  Arab  stove.  About  it  in  the  candle-light 
we  seated  ourselves — Rais  Ga-wah-je,  the  fonduk 
keeper,  my  dragoman  Muraiche,  and  myself. 
To  Ga-wah-je  my  dragoman  presented  my 
gifts,  seven  okes  of  sugar  cones  and  fifteen 
pounds  of  green  tea.  Some  of  the  tea  was  imme- 
diately brewed  and  mixed  half  with  sugar  and 
a  touch  of  mint.  We  drank  the  syrupy  liquid  and 
broke  bread  together — then  Ga-wah-je  bade  me 
welcome. 

From  my  bed  on  a  single  stone  seat  at  the  side 
of  the  entrance  I  looked  through  an  open  door 
across  the  passageway  to  the  only  room  of  the 
place,  used  as  a  prayer  chamber,  in  which  was 
the  kibleh.  In  the  dim  light  of  an  oil  lamp  the 
indistinct  forms  of  several  devout  Moslems 
knelt  or  prostrated  themselves  before  Allah, 
low-droning  their  prayers.  Out  in  the  fonduk  en- 
closure all  was  quiet  save  for  the  peaceful  chew- 
ing of  cuds,  or  an  occasional  sound  as  a  camel 

[186] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

swallowed  or  a  cricket  chirped.  The  moon- 
beams shooting  their  silvery  shafts  lit  up  por- 
tions of  the  farther  wall.  The  soft  breath  of  the 
silent  night  blew  gently  from  the  south  through 
the  feathered  tops  of  the  date-palms,  and  pulling 
my  blanket  over  me  I  fell  asleep. 

A  low  cry  from  outside  the  fonduk  awakened 
us,  and  pandemonium  broke  loose  among  the 
dogs.  Cautiously  drawing  aside  a  small  panel 
covering  a  peep-hole,  the  keeper,  after  a  brief 
conversation,  satisfied  himself  that  all  was  well, 
and  as  the  heavy  doors  swung  open,  another  car- 
avan entered.  The  first  beasts  came  through 
like  a  maelstrom.  Half  awake  in  the  semidark- 
ness  I  dodged  the  swing  of  a  long  neck  as  one  of 
the  vicious  brutes  attempted  to  bite  me  in  pass- 
ing, while  several  Arabs  dragged  aside  a  badly 
crushed  comrade. 

Invariably  the  Desert  thief  lurks  about  the  fon- 
diiks  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning,  watch- 
ing an  opportunity  to  prey  on  any  belated  trav- 
eller as  he  approaches,  or  to  rob  the  fonduk. 
With  the  help  of  a  companion  he  scales  the  wall 
outside,  and  by  a  rope  drops  noiselessly  down  in 
some  dark  corner  of  the  square  enclosure,  or, 
near  a  corner,  he  scrapes  a  hole  in  the  wall  large 

[187] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

enough  for  him  to  pass  through.  This  is  not 
difficult.  A  quart  or  two  of  vinegar  occasionally 
applied  not  only  assists  in  disintegrating  the  wall 
of  sun-dried  bricks,  but  renders  his  work  noise- 
less as  he  digs  with  his  knife.  Inside,  he  sneaks 
among  the  garfla,  keeping  always  in  the  shadow, 
stealing  here  a  baracan,  there  a  gun  or  whatever 
it  may  be,  and  frequently,  unobserved,  retreats 
as  he  entered. 

After  a  scant  three  hours'  sleep  a  lantern 
flashed  in  my  face,  Ga-wah-je  passed,  and  the 
fonduk  was  soon  astir.  The  camels  once  more 
took  up  their  heavy  burdens  and  passed  out. 
The  last  to  leave  was  Ga-wah-je.  At  the  en- 
trance he  and  the  keeper  kept  tally  of  his  ani- 
mals, after  which  he  paid  the  fonduk  fee  of  ten 
paras  [one  cent]  per  head  for  camels  and  don- 
keys, and  a  nominal  sum  for  goats  and  sheep. 
The  charge  for  my  horses  was  twenty  paras 
apiece. 

The  gardens  were  soon  left  behind,  and  the 
lanelike  roads  lost  themselves  in  the  sand  which 
carpeted  the  palm  groves  through  which  we  now 
travelled.  The  night  dew  which  nourishes  the 
scattered  Desert  plant  life  lay  heavy  jewelled  on 
bent  blades  of  rank  grass  and  sand  lilies.    The 

[188] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

date-palms  through  violet  ground  mists  showed 
indistinct  and  softened  against  the  brilliant  rose 
dawn  of  day.  They  ended,  and  suddenly  in  the 
orange-gold  of  the  morning  sunlight  the  sand 
billows  of  the  mighty  Sahara  rolled  away  south 
over  the  horizon. 

For  days  we  travelled  over  these  hills  of  sand, 
sometimes  over  endless  level  reaches,  through 
districts  of  clayey,  sandy  soil,  over  which  Desert 
grasses  undulated  softly  in  the  hot  wind;  there 
the  trail  was  hard  packed  and  easily  discern- 
ible. Once  I  looked  across  a  valley  to  where  the 
trails  seemed  to  tumble  over  a  distant  hillside, 
like  a  series  of  cascades  losing  themselves  in  the 
ocean  of  sand  below.  Where  it  descended  into 
the  dried  river  beds,  the  tread  of  generations  of 
camels  had  worn  ravines  ten  or  twelve  feet  deep. 
These  interlaced  like  the  paths  of  a  maze,  and 
passing  through  them  with  a  caravan  was  like 
a  constant  game  of  hide-and-seek,  for  every  man, 
camel,  and  donkey  took  his  own  course.  During 
the  greater  part  of  the  year  these  river  beds  are 
veritable  ovens  of  heat,  but  in  winter  they  be- 
come raging  torrents  in  which  men  and  animals 
frequently  lose  their  lives.  In  the  sandy  areas 
the  trails  are  often  mere  directions,  and  the  only 

[189] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

guides  are  the  sun  and  the  stars,  for  the  passing 
sand-storm  not  only  quickly  obliterates  all  tracks, 
but  sometimes  a  single  one  changes  the  topog- 
raphy of  the  landscape. 

During  the  season  of  the  warm  rains,  which 
sink  into  the  porous  surface  until  they  are 
arrested  at  no  great  depth,  vast  subterranean 
sheets  of  water  are  formed,  which  could  almost 
anywhere  be  brought  to  the  surface  by  sinking 
artesian  wells.  Many  streams  flow  inland,  where 
they  are  lost  in  the  sand  of  the  salt  lakes.  At  this 
time  whole  sections  of  the  parched  Desert  seem 
almost  over  night  to  have  been  changed  to  an- 
other land.  Mountains  and  valleys  blossom, 
and  the  banks  of  the  wadis  seem  afire  with  the 
flaming  oleander.  By  these  streams  or  springs 
are  the  oases  where  date-palms  and  gardens  are 
planted,  and  Arab  houses,  fonduks,  or  towns  are 
built  which  determine  the  course  of  the  caravan 
routes.  At  intervals  are  wells  for  the  use  of  car- 
avans, and  a  great  danger  lies  in  missing  these 
wells.  One  very  hot  summer  some  men  nearly 
reached  the  gardens  of  Tripoli,  but  could  go  no 
farther.  When  found  they  could  only  say,  "Ma! 
ma!"  [water!  water!].  It  was  given  them;  they 
drank  and  died  straightway. 

[190] 


THE  CARAVAN  TRADE 

I  watched  our  garfla  wind  around  or  zigzag 
over  the  sand-hills,  breaking  and  linking  itself 
together  again  as  it  crawled  its  slow  pace  of 
three  miles  an  hour.  It  marched  in  irregular 
order  characteristic  of  the  Arabs,  stringing  out 
for  miles,  but  closing  in  together  for  protection 
against  attack  as  night  approached.  The  Arab 
usually  refrains  from  riding  the  baggage  camel, 
for  every  pound  of  weight  and  its  adjustment  on 
these  great  beasts  must  be  considered ;  and  even 
an  Arab  has  to  ride  a  jemal  but  an  hour  or  two 
to  appreciate  the  luxury  of  walking. 

Through  the  most  dangerous  districts  the  men 
were  distributed  the  length  of  the  caravan  with 
a  strong  rear-guard — for  it  is  from  this  point  that 
an  attack  by  an  enemy  is  most  feared.  As  the 
sun  gets  high,  most  of  the  men  muffle  themselves 
in  their  heavy  woollen  baracans  to  keep  out  the 
heat,  and  transfer  their  long  flint-locks  from 
across  their  shoulders  to  the  packs  of  the  ani- 
mals. Between  eleven  and  three  o'clock  occurs 
the  midday  rest.  Tents  are  rarely,  if  ever,  car- 
ried by  the  garflas:  in  fact,  I  have  never  seen 
men  of  a  trade  caravan  carry  tents.  Instead 
they  use  that  ever-available  garment — the  bara- 
can.    This  answers  all  their  immediate  needs  in 

[191] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  way  of  clothing  and  trunk.  In  its  loose  folds 
the  native  carries  anything  from  his  shoes  to  his 
coarse  staple  food,  barley  bread.  At  one  cara- 
vansary I  found  Mohammed  rinsing  my  dishes 
in  some  stagnant  water  and  carefully  wiping  them 
on  his  baracan,  which  bore  all  the  hall-marks  of 
a  family  heirloom.  In  winter  the  baracan  is  a 
protection  against  the  chilling  winds,  in  summer 
against  the  intense  heat.  When  the  midday  halt 
is  made,  the  men  cast  off  the  loads  from  either 
side  of  the  recumbent  camels  and  with  their 
baracans  construct  improvised  tents  propped  up 
with  stick,  club,  or  gun.  Under  these  in  the  suf- 
focating heat  their  owners  snatch  what  is  some- 
times the  only  rest  of  the  day,  for  they  often 
travel  twenty  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four. 

Passing  caravans  were  scarce.  A  dust  cloud 
would  appear  in  the  distance,  grow  large,  and 
a  caravan  of  Bedawi,  those  nomads  of  the  Des- 
ert, in  all  their  barbaric  paraphernalia  would 
pass  by,  erstwhile  eying  us  suspiciously  with 
unslung  guns,  holding  in  leash  or  calling  to  their 
savage  wolf  hounds  in  order  to  avoid  a  mix-up 
with  our  garfla  dogs.  For  many  of  their  tribal 
wars  and  feuds  have  started  under  less  provo- 
cation than  a  dog  fight. 

[192] 


CHAPTER  TEN 

DESERT   INCIDENTS 

PROBABLY  none  among  the  country  people 
and  the  Desert  tribes  arouse  the  interest  of 
the  Occidental  mind  more  than  the  Bedawi. 
From  time  immemorial  they  have  lived  in  tents 
in  the  Desert,  subsisting  principally  by  the  rob- 
bery of  caravans  on  the  road  to  Mecca;  but  to- 
day Tripoli  Bedawi,  although  given  somewhat 
to  agriculture,  are  really  tribes  of  petty,  wander- 
ing merchants,  trading  articles  of  their  own  manu- 
facture which  they  carry  from  place  to  place. 
These  consist  principally  of  dark  cloth  for  bara- 
cans  and  thick  webs  of  goat's  hair  for  tent  covers, 
also  loose  woven  baskets  and  plates  of  raffia 
weave. 

Like  the  Jews  they  still  retain  many  customs 
described  in  sacred  history,  and  are  in  almost 
every  way  the  same  kind  of  people  we  find  men- 
tioned in  the  earliest  times  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment. Owing  to  their  constant  exposure  to  the 
sun  they  are  much  darker  than  the  Moors. 

[  193  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  the  Bedawi  ap- 
proach Tripoh,  pitch  their  tents  on  the  plain  or 
sometimes  in  the  oasis  itself.  There  they  sow 
their  corn,  wait  until  they  can  reap  it,  and  then 
disappear  until  the  year  following.  During  their 
stay  in  the  oases  and  vicinity  the  women  weave 
and  sell  their  work.  When  the  fine  weather  and 
corn  fail  them  in  one  place  they  immediately 
travel  on  to  a  more  fertile  spot  with  their  families, 
horses,  and  cattle.  A  family  of  distinction  among 
them  will  pitch  four  or  five  tents,  which  present 
a  most  striking  picture  with  their  varied  shapes 
sometimes  against  a  background  of  date-palms. 
The  women  wear  the  same  kind  of  a  coarse  brown 
baracan  as  the  men.  They  put  it  on  by  joining 
the  two  upper  corners  with  a  wooden  or  iron  bod- 
kin, afterward  folding  the  rest  gracefully  about 
their  figures.  They  plait  their  hair,  cutting  it 
straight  above  the  eyebrow,  and  many  of  the 
black-eyed,  white-teethed  girls  are  pretty  in  their 
wild,  picturesque  way.  The  women  do  practi- 
cally all  the  labor  of  the  camp:  fetching  wood 
and  drawing  water;  pitching  and  striking  tents; 
milking  the  she  goats  and  camels,  and  preparing 
food.  They  are  divided  into  a  prodigious  num- 
ber of  tribes,  distinguished  by  the  names  of  their 

[194] 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

sheiks.  Each  tribe  forms  a  village  and  each 
family  has  a  tent  or  portable  hut.  In  Tripoli 
each  sheik  is  answerable  to  the  Turkish  Pasha 
for  the  actions  of  each  individual  of  his  tribe. 
One  evening  I  saw  some  dozen  male  members 
of  a  tribe  driven  in  to  the  Castle  Prisons  by  a 
Turkish  guard.  The  arms  of  all  of  them  were 
securely  bound  behind  with  a  single  piece  of  rope, 
and  their  arrest  was  due  to  the  Turkish  suspicion 
which  had  centred  about  one  of  them. 

The  Bedawi,  unlike  the  Moors,  frequently 
visit  one  another's  domiciles,  taking  their  chil- 
dren with  them,  but  the  life  of  these  wandering 
Desert  waifs,  at  the  best,  is  a  hard  one.  The 
women  soon  become  wrinkled  and  leather- 
skinned,  and  the  men  are  old  almost  before  they 
have  had  a  chance  to  be  young. 

Sometimes  I  would  ride  forward  with  my 
dragoman,  anticipating  a  longer  rest  by  making 
a  fonduk  several  hours  ahead  of  the  slowly  mov- 
ing garfla.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  we 
ascended  a  sand-hill,  the  advance  guard  of  a 
homeward-bound  caravan  suddenly  loomed  up 
before  us.  Eleven  months  before,  they  had 
started  from  the  great  trade  mart  of  Kano,  the 
first  caravan  to  arrive  from  there  for  tw^o  years, 

[195] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

owing  to  the  general  insecurity  of  the  roads. 
Three  months  they  had  held  over  at  Zinder  and 
a  month  at  both  Air  and  Ghat.  It  took  us  all 
the  afternoon  to  ride  by  the  twelve  hundred  and 
twenty  camels.  They  carried  a  thousand  loads 
of  Sudan  skins  from  the  famous  dye  pits  of 
Kano,  destined  to  find  their  way  to  New  York 
for  the  manufacture  of  gloves  and  shoes;  two 
hundred  loads  of  ostrich  feathers,  and  ten  loads 
of  ivory,  besides  odd  lots  of  rhinoceros  horn, 
gum-arabic,  and  wax,  valued  altogether  at 
over  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Ostrich 
eggs,  worked  leather  and  basket,  work  dangled 
from  the  loads.  Here  and  there  a  leopard  or 
cheetah  skin,  shot  on  the  way,  was  thrown  across 
a  pack  or  hung  from  the  shoulders  of  some  big 
negro.  Black  women  there  were,  too,  slaves, 
perhaps,  or  concubines  for  some  of  the  rich 
Moors  or  Turks.  As  the  garfla  neared  Tripoli, 
runners  would  be  sent  ahead,  and  there  would 
be  great  rejoicing  among  the  men  who  had 
waited  several  years  for  the  return  of  their  goods. 
I  well  remember  one  day  in  mid  August:  the 
mercury  stood  at  155°  in  the  sun.  I  do  not 
know  what  it  registered  in  the  shade,  for  there 
was  none,  save  our  own  shadows.    As  the  sun 

[  196  ] 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

wore  round  behind  us,  I  shifted  the  broad  band 
of  my  woollen  cholera  belt  to  my  back  and  cast 
my  own  shadow  to  protect  as  far  as  possible  the 
neck  and  head  of  my  horse,  for  the  poor  beast 
was  suffering  terribly  from  the  heat. 

All  day  we  rode  in  this  furnace  and  the  brave 
fellows  trudged  barefooted  in  the  scorching  sand. 
At  intervals  I  heard  a  rumble  like  distant  thun- 
der, which  proved  to  be  only  the  soughing  of  the 
gibli  through  the  vent  in  the  top  of  my  sun  hel- 
met. Strange  as  is  the  fascination  of  the  Desert, 
yet  one  feels  its  monotony  keenly;  he  notices 
with  avaricious  interest  anything  which  will  re- 
lieve him  from  the  intense  heat  overhead  and  the 
everlasting  wriggling  heat  waves  of  the  sun 
glare  underneath.  So  for  hours  at  a  time  I 
watched  the  formation  of  camel  footprints  in  the 
sand;  watched  them  scuff  through  and  destroy 
the  beautiful  point-lace  patterns  of  the  lizard 
tracks  left  by  their  frightened  designers.  As  the 
afternoon  wore  on  I  would  doze  in  my  saddle,  to 
wake  up  with  a  jump  as  I  jammed  against  a 
camel,  or  the  muzzled  mouth  of  a  "biter"  swung 
sharply  against  my  head. 

Tall,  sun-tanned  Arabs  and  big  negroes  black 
as  ebony  formed  the  escort  of  the  garfla.   Many 

[197] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

of  the  latter  first  saw  Tripoli  when  they  were 
driven  up  from  the  Sudan  under  the  crack  of 
the  slave  whip.  Rarely  complaining  in  the  in- 
tense heat,  they  moved  forward,  long  guns  slung 
across  their  backs  and  often  native  fans  in  their 
hands.  Usually  the  men  go  barefooted:  some- 
times over  stretches  of  soft  sand  they  wear  broad- 
soled  Desert  slippers,  and  on  rocky  ground 
sandals  are  worn.  Most  of  the  Blacks  have  their 
tribal  marks,  a  certain  number  of  deep  slashes 
across  the  cheeks  and  temples,  made  by  their 
parents  with  sharp  stones  when  they  were  chil- 
dren. As  one  Black  trudged  along  beside  me,  his 
splendid  calf  muscles  played  underneath  three 
stripes  cut  in  the  black  skin. 

Early  one  morning  I  had  ridden  some  miles  in 
advance  of  the  garfla.  Save  for  the  soft  scuff  of 
my  horse's  hoofs  and  the  stretching  of  my  leather 
trappings,  a  great  silence  hung  over  the  untram- 
melled sand  hillocks,  and  their  blue-pervaded 
mysterious  shadows  lengthened.  A  rounded  top 
here  and  there  broke  the  silver  moon  as  it  mel- 
lowed toward  the  horizon.  Suddenly  my  horse 
shied,  nearly  unseating  me.  Instinctively  I 
searched  the  sky-line  of  hilltops.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  black  spot  of  a  head  I  might  not 

[198] 


-a 

-3 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

have  noticed  the  gray  baracaned  figure  of  a 
Desert  thief  who,  in  his  sleep,  rolled  out  of  his 
sandy  lair.  Startled,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  and 
for  a  second  stared  blankly  at  me.  He  reached 
for  his  long  gun  which  lay  by  his  side,  but  I  cov- 
ered him  with  my  revolver  and  there  he  sat  until 
out  of  range  and  sight.  The  fellow  had  been  left 
by  his  comrades,  who  were  probably  in  the  vicin- 
ity. This  trick  of  burrowing  under  the  sand 
beside  the  course  of  an  on-coming  garfla  is  often 
resorted  to.  As  the  garfla  passes,  the  thieves 
rise  out  of  the  earth,  make  a  quick  onslaught, 
then  rapidly  retire,  taking  w^ith  them  what  booty 
they  can  lay  their  hands  on  and  frequently 
stampeding  some  of  the  camels. 

Occasionally  these  vultures  also  resort  to  the 
tactics  of  a  sneak  thief,  and  choose  a  time  at  night 
when  a  fast-moving  caravan  overtakes  a  slower 
one.  During  the  confusion  caused  by  the  mixing 
up  of  men  and  animals  in  passing,  the  thief  falls 
in  from  the  rear  and  naturally  is  taken  by  either 
party  to  be  a  member  of  the  other  garfla.  Then, 
pilfering  anything  he  can  seize  from  the  loads, 
he  falls  back  to  the  rear  and  drops  out  of  sight 
behind  a  sand-hill. 

Lightly  blowing  in  the  face  of  the  south-bound 
[  199] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

garflas,  there  springs  from  the  south-east  a  gentle 
wind,  the  gibh,  which  playfully  spins  little  eddy- 
ing whiffs  of  sand  into  miniature  whirlwinds. 
In  this  manner  it  may  blow  for  days,  evaporating 
the  water  in  the  goat-skin  bags  and  sometimes 
terminating  in  a  sand-storm.  Then,  when  the 
camels,  craning  their  long  necks,  sniff  high  in  the 
air  and  utter  a  peculiar  cry,  the  garfla  men  know 
well  the  ominous  signs;  far  off  on  the  horizon, 
creeping  higher  and  higher,  the  sky  of  blue  re- 
treats before  a  sky  of  brass. 

To  the  hoarse  cries  and  curses  of  the  men  as 
they  try  to  hobble  the  fore  legs  of  the  excited 
camels  are  added  the  uncanny  guttural  groan- 
ings  of  the  jamal,  the  braying  of  the  asses,  and 
the  pitiful  bleating  of  the  goats  and  sheep.  High 
in  the  air  great  flames  of  sand  reach  out,  then 
the  lurid  sand  cloud,  completely  covering  the 
sky,  comes  down  upon  the  garfla.  In  the  con- 
fusion some  of  the  water  bags  are  broken  and  the 
precious  liquid  disappears  in  the  sand.  Turning 
tail  and  driving  down  before  the  blast  go  some 
of  the  unhobbled  camels,  maybe  carrying  a  driver 
with  them,  never  to  be  heard  from  again. 

In  the  deep  yellow  gloom  the  garfla,  back 
to  the  storm,    lies  huddled  together;   the  men, 

[  200  ] 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

wrapped  up  completely  in  their  baracans,  hug 
close  to  the  goat-skins  of  water.  The  whole  air 
is  surcharged  with  suffocating  heat  and  fine 
powdered  sand  dust,  which  finds  its  way  even 
as  far  as  Malta  and  Sicily.  It  penetrates  every- 
where, inflames  the  eyes  and  cracks  the  skin  of 
the  already  parched  tongues  and  throats  of  the 
garfla  men.  The  torment  at  times  is  indescrib- 
able, and  some  poor  fellow,  like  the  camels,  will 
run  maddened  into  the  hurricane. 

The  sand-storm  lasts  from  a  few  hours  to  six 
or  seven  days,  and  during  it  the  men  lie  thus, 
occasionally  digging  themselves  to  the  surface 
as  they  become  partially  covered  with  sand. 
Frequently  all  the  remaining  water  dries  up. 
At  such  times  camels  are  often  sacrificed  for  the 
sake  of  the  greenish  water  which  may  be  ob- 
tained from  the  honeycomb  cells  of  the  reticu- 
lum, a  mature  camel  yielding  about  five  or  six 
quarts:  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  water 
is  cooler  than  that  carried  in  the  goat-skins.  The 
storm  over,  the  surviving  garfla  of  emaciated 
men  and  animals  staggers  on  to  the  nearest  oasis 
or  town,  over  plains  w^hich  before  were  sand- 
hills, and  sand-hills  which  are  now  plains. 

The  first  stop  of  any  length  made  by  the 
[201] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

south-bound  garflas  is  at  Murzuk  with  its  eleven 
thousand  inhabitants,  that  desolate  capital  of 
the  Fezzan — Murzuk,  the  horror  of  Turkish 
exiles,  where  a  man  is  fortunate  if  the  deadly 
climate  takes  away  only  his  senses  of  smell  and 
taste.  Here  a  thorough  rest  is  given  to  camels 
and  men.  Fresh  supplies  are  obtained,  the  gaps 
in  the  ranks  filled  out,  and  again  the  wearisome 
march  is  resumed.  Some  fifteen  hundred  miles 
south  of  the  coast  they  pass  over  the  undefined 
boundary  line  of  Tripoli  through  the  dangerous 
country  of  the  Tuaregs  and  the  Damerghus. 

From  time  immemorial  slaves  suffering  in- 
conceivable torments  have  been  brought  across 
the  Sahara  from  the  Sudan,  for  those  regions  ex- 
tending from  Abyssinia  to  the  Gulf  of  Guinea 
have  furnished  an  almost  inexhaustible  supply. 
Particularly  from  the  Central  Sudan  has  the 
Arab  slave-trader  gathered  in  his  human  harvest 
to  the  chief  depots  of  Timbuktu  in  the  west  and 
Kuka  in  the  east. 

You  will  find  an  occasional  Arab  who  will  tell 
you  of  a  route  known  only  to  the  Senusi,  that 
large  fraternity  of  Moslems  located  in  Tripoli- 
tania,  who  make  proselyting  wars  and  expedi- 
tions from  Wadai  to  their  capital.     Along  this 

[202] 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

route  it  is  said  that  never  less  than  fifteen  cara- 
vans cross  the  Desert  every  year,  which  bring 
about  ten  thousand  slaves  alive  to  tell  the  tale; 
and  they  estimate  that  forty  thousand  victims  fall 
on  the  march.  Once  on  the  secret  route  you 
cannot  lose  your  way,  for  it  is  lined  with  human 
bones.  Many  of  these  slaves  were  formerly  em- 
barked for  Turkey,  and  there  seems  to  be  little 
doubt  that  slaves  are  still  secretly  conveyed  to 
Canea  and  Salonica,  Constantinople  and  Smyrna. 
The  only  habitation  of  many  small  oases  is  a 
fonduk.  Arriving  late  one  night  at  one  of  these 
we  found  the  place  already  so  crowded  that  when 
our  garfla  was  in,  men  and  animals  were  liter- 
ally jammed  together.  The  filth  and  vermin  of 
the  place,  not  to  mention  the  sickening  odors, 
disturbed  not  the  sons  of  Allah;  but  for  a  num- 
ber of  reasons  I  had  objections  to  spending  the 
night  in  such  close  quarters,  preferring  to  risk 
the  external  annoyance  of  thieves.  Muraiche, 
with  much  suavity,  held  a  lengthy  conversation 
with  the  keeper,  who  shifted  the  little  blossom 
which  he  wore  tucked  at  the  top  of  his  ear  to  the 
other  side  of  his  head  and  moved  thoughtfully 
away.  Muraiche  informed  me  that  he  had  con- 
fided to  him  that  I  was  the  Consul  of  Cordova, 

[  203  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  that  he  had  asked  permission  for  us  to  sleep 
under  the  oHve-trees  within  the  mud  walls  of  his 
garden — which  was  no  small  favor  to  be  granted 
to  strangers.  The  keeper  was  sufficiently  im- 
pressed with  the  old  rascal's  yarn,  spread  mats 
for  us  under  the  trees,  and  later  brought  us  some 
fruit  and  eggs,  then  returned  to  the  fonduk  and 
the  great  doors  were  bolted. 

Well  knowing  that  not  one  of  my  men  would 
stay  awake  during  his  watch,  I  slept  lightly. 
Toward  midnight  the  creak  of  my  pannier 
aroused  me.  Turning  my  head  cautiously  I  dis- 
tinguished a  large  wolf-dog  in  the  dim  moon- 
light; under  the  shadow  of  a  near-by  pomegran- 
ate-tree, I  made  out  the  form  of  a  Desert  thief 
quietly  directing  the  dog  in  his  plundering. 
Jumping  to  my  feet  and  giving  Mohammed 
[whose  watch  it  was]  a  hearty  kick  to  arouse  him, 
I  ran  after  the  retreating  marauders,  who  disap- 
peared among  the  rushes  of  a  neighboring  marsh. 
Knowing  better  than  to  enter  their  lair,  I  re- 
turned to  camp,  to  find  Mohammed  bemoaning 
the  loss  of  a  pair  of  broad-soled  Desert  slippers. 
To  make  up  much-needed  rest  I  delayed  my 
start  next  morning  to  some  five  hours  behind  the 
garfla. 

[204] 


Muraiche  and  men  descending  a  desert  defile 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

As  the  sun  rose  high,  I  found  Hadji  AH,  an 
old  caravaneer,  seated  outside  the  fonduk  adjust- 
ing a  new  flint  in  his  pistol.  This  done,  he  gazed 
long  at  the  weapon,  and  his  wrinkled,  scarred 
old  face  softened  as  when  a  man  looks  upon  a 
thing  he  loves.  Many  journeys  across  the  Sa- 
hara with  the  garfla  had  sapped  his  wiry  arms 
of  their  youthful  strength,  and  the  ugly  scar  over 
his  left  eye  was  a  trophy  of  his  last  voyage  three 
years  before,  which  had  nearly  landed  him  in  the 
fields  of  the  blessed.    This  was  the  story: 

''You  must  know,  Arfi,  that  we  were  a  garfla 
thirteen  thousand  camels  strong,  proceeding 
north  to  Tripoli  from  Kano,  which  was  many 
months  behind  us.  The  escort  and  transport 
were  principally  men  of  Air  and  their  animals. 
Three  years  before,  Sadek,  one  of  their  chiefs, 
was  slain  by  Moussa,  a  brother  of  the  Sultan  of 
Damerghu.  Two  years  after,  the  slayer  in  turn 
was  killed  by  the  men  of  Air. 

*'As  we  entered  the  country  of  the  Damer- 
ghus  our  guards  were  doubly  watchful  and  our 
camels  tied  one  to  the  other.  All  through  the 
wild  country,  when  in  camp,  we  formed  a  square 
with  the  animals,  the  men  and  guards  being  in- 
side.   We  were  strong  and  did  not  intend  to  pay 

[205] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

either  tribute  or  homage  for  passing  through  the 
territory.  It  was  at  the  end  of  the  dry  months, 
and  some  of  the  wells  contained  no  water.  We 
were  all  weak  and  suffering  and  a  number  of  our 
men  had  the  sleeping-sickness.  We  made  haste 
to  reach  the  wells  of  Farok,  not  two  days'  jour- 
ney from  Damerghu  itself.  We  had  almost 
reached  them  when  narrow  ravines  obliged  us  to 
fall  one  behind  the  other.  Suddenly  from  am- 
bush the  men  of  Damerghu  furiously  attacked 
us  in  great  numbers.  The  character  of  the 
country  prevented  us  from  bringing  our  men  to- 
gether. We  fought  hard  and  well,  but — Allah 
willed.  Two  hundred  and  ten  were  killed  on 
both  sides,  among  whom  were  twelve  Tripoli- 
tans,  some  of  them  being  among  the  most  fa- 
mous garfla  leaders  in  Tripoli.  Twelve  thousand 
camel  loads  of  guinea  corn  destined  for  Air,  one 
thousand  camel  loads  of  ostrich  feathers,  ivory, 
Sudan  skins,  and  mixed  goods,  with  the  entire 
transport,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Damerghus. 
"Near  the  end  of  the  fight,  Arfi,  a  big  man 
broke  through  my  guard  with  his  two-edged 
sword.  It  was  night  when  I  came  to  myself  and 
I  had  been  stripped  of  everything.  With  great 
effort  I  reached  the  wells  of  Farok.    Near  where 

[206] 


DESERT  INCIDENTS 

I  fell  I  found  half  buried  in  the  sand  my  pistol 
with  its  charge  unfired — but  that  is  another  story." 

The  total  value  of  these  goods  lost,  including 
the  animals  of  burden,  amounted  to  more  than 
$800,000;  and  the  wells  of  Farok,  where  the  cap- 
ture occurred,  lie  in  an  air-line  about  nineteen 
hundred  and  five  kilometres  south-west  of  Tripoli. 

The  opening  of  new  routes  southward  and  de- 
flection of  trade  in  that  direction  still  lessen  the 
prospect  of  inducing  it  to  return  to  the  shores  of 
Tripoli,  and  except  as  regards  Wadai  and  part 
of  the  Sudan  the  bulk  of  the  trade  may  be  said 
to  be  lost  to  Tripoli.  Tribal  feuds  on  caravan 
routes  unexpectedly  change  the  aspects  and  dis- 
concert traders. 

Long  before  the  royal  caravan  of  the  Queen 
of  Sheba,  with  its  heavy  embroidered  trappings, 
brought  gifts  to  Solomon;  long  before  that 
Semitic  nomad,  Abraham,  came  out  of  Ur, 
caravans  had  crept  their  patient,  steady  way 
across  the  hot  sands  and  deserts  of  the  East. 
But  the  days  of  the  Tripoli  caravan  trade  are 
numbered,  and  the  single  wire  of  telegraph  line 
which  has  already  found  its  way  to  Murzuk  is 
but  a  forerunner  to  herald  the  comino:  of  the 
iron  horse  into  the  land  of  the  garfla. 

[207] 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

CAMEL   TRAILS 

OFTEN  in  the  narrow  streets  and  open  suks 
of  many  North  African  towns  I  had  met 
the  great  lumbering  jemal,  but  it  was  not  until 
I  had  eaten  in  his  shadow,  slept  by  him  in  fon- 
duks,  and  travelled  with  him  day  by  day  along 
the  caravan  trails  of  the  northern  Sahara,  that 
I  began  to  understand  and  fully  appreciate  this 
incongruous  model  of  ugly  usefulness. 

Through  a  sweep  of  saffron  sky  the  glowing 
sun  spilled  an  aureola  of  golden  light  over  the 
heat-swept  sand  of  the  northern  Sahara.  Before 
me,  as  I  rode,  the  sand  ripples  were  broken  only 
by  big  heart-shaped  footprints  of  a  solitary  camel 
— then  beyond  the  rounding  sand  hillocks  the 
great  beast  silhouetted  his  gaunt  shape  against 
the  afterglow,  dignified,  patient,  defiant,  imper- 
turbable, a  creature  of  the  vast  wastes;  revered, 
valued,  and  ill-treated  by  the  Oriental;  misun- 
derstood and  surrounded  with  mystery  by  the 

[208] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

Occidental ;  to  me  an  epitome  of  the  deserts  and 
their  inhabitants. 

Down  through  the  countless  ages  the  silent, 
cushioned  tread  of  the  camel  has  kept  pace  with 
the  peoples  of  the  East,  and  for  aeons,  so  far  as 
history  or  Arab  tradition  is  concerned,  he  has 
furnished  these  nomads  with  food,  shelter,  cloth- 
ing, and  transportation;  has  printed  his  way 
across  the  trackless  deserts,  and  left  his  bones 
white-bleached  beside  the  sand-blown  trails, 
guidons  for  future  garflas. 

With  the  advent  of  human  history  comes  the 
camel  as  a  domesticated  animal.  Before  the 
Genesiacal  scribe  had  closed  his  book,  we  find 
camels  a  main  apportionment  to  the  children  of 
men,  and  even  to-day  the  Arab's  wealth  is  counted 
in  camels. 

To  the  far-off  sunken  districts  of  Turkestan  in 
Central  Asia  is  attributed  his  original  habitation, 
over  which  he  roamed  in  uncontrolled  freedom. 

Broadly  speaking,  there  are  two  kinds  of 
camels — the  double-humped  Bactrian  and  the 
single-humped  Arabian.  The  Bactrian  threads 
its  way  over  Asia  east  of  the  Euphrates  and  the 
Persian  Gulf,  clear  across  to  China,  and  as  far 

as  the  colder  mountainous  regions  of  northern 

[  209  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Mongolia;  the  Arabian  picks  his  trail  westward 
across  the  heat-soaked  rocks  and  sand  reaches 
of  the  Arabian  and  African  deserts. 

Not  long  after  my  arrival  in  Tripoli,  I  took 
with  me  my  man  Bringali,  and  together  we  jour- 
neyed to  a  fondiik  on  the  edge  of  the  town. 

"O  camel  driver!"  spoke  Bringali,  as  he  ad- 
dressed a  muffled  figure  squatting  in  the  shadow 
of  the  wall,  *'have  you  two  good  camels  ?'' 

'*To  thy  eye,  O  merchant!"  [judge  for  thyself], 
replied  Mahmood,  the  driver,  as  unrolling  him- 
self out  of  his  baracan,  he  led  the  way  across  the 
fondiik  to  where  two  heavily  built  draught  cam- 
els lazily  chewed  their  cuds  and  with  their  short 
tufted  tails  flicked  the  flies  from  their  rumps. 

One  was  a  moth-eaten  looking  beast,  for  it 
was  moulting  time,  and  the  owner  plucked  here 
and  there  a  handful  of  the  soft  hair  from  its 
shaggy  hide.  The  other  was  closely  sheared,  as 
is  customary  when  the  hottest  weather  ap- 
proaches. After  some  bartering  I  hired  them 
and  the  driver  for  the  afternoon  for  sixty  cents. 
They  were  draught  camels,  *'baggagers,"  as 
Tommy  Atkins  calls  them  down  in  Egypt.  The 
Arab  calls  him  just  plain  *' jemal." 

While  there  are  many  different  breeds  of  cam- 
[210] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

els,  the  most  distinctive  of  the  Arabians  are  the 
heavy,  slow-moving  jemal  and  his  cousin,  the 
mehari,  a  tall,  lightly  built,  swifter,  and  more 
elegant  creature,  used  almost  exclusively  for  rid- 
ing, known  as  the  riding  or  running  camel. 
Much  confusion  has  existed  as  to  the  word  drom- 
edary, which  many  have  considered  a  distinction 
between  the  Arabian  and  Bactrian  camels;  i.e., 
the  one  and  two  humped.  Dromedary  is  not 
a  distinction  of  species,  however,  but  of  breed. 
The  name,  though  generally  applied  to  the  finely 
bred  Arabian,  may  be  applied  to  an  equivalent 
breed  of  Bactrian.  The  word  dromedary  is  un- 
doubtedly, in  the  root  at  least,  derived  from  the 
Greek  dromas  [running],  finding  its  suffix,  per- 
haps, from  the  Arabic  word  mahari  (mehari), 
the  name  of  a  swift  breed  of  camels  raised  by  the 
tribe  of  Mahra.  This  name  was  given  by  the 
Greeks,  about  the  time  of  Cyrus  or  Xerxes,  to 
certain  breeds  of  swift  camels. 

One  has  but  to  try  the  experiment  of  riding 
a  baggager  to  realize  that  there  is  not  only  a  dis- 
tinction with  a  difference,  but  a  distinction  with 
a  vengeance;  and  any  Christian  who  willingly 
substitutes  the  rump  of  a  jemal  for  terra  firma 
deserves  all  he  gets,  for  even  an  Arab  will  often 

[211] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

prefer  walking  to  the  lumbar  vertebrae  of  a 
jemal.  My  intention  was  to  ride  three  or  four 
miles  into  the  Desert  and  back. 

*' Mount,  Arfi,"  said  Bringali,  and  I  strad- 
dled a  straw-filled  sack  thrown  across  the  hind 
quarters  of  the  recumbent  jemal,  who  uttered 
a  fearful  protest  the  whole  length  of  his  long 
throat,  turned  his  head  squarely  round  and  looked 
me  full  in  the  face,  twitching  his  mobile  upper 
lip  with  a  half-cynical,  half-deprecating  curl. 
The  Arabs  ride  back  of  the  pack-saddle  for 
easier  motion  and  often  to  be  out  of  reach  of  the 
jaws  of  a  biter. 

"Up,  thou  tick  of  an  ass's  tail — ar-r-rah!"  and 
with  a  vicious  whack  the  Arab  brought  his  heavy 
stick  across  the  beast's  jaw.  I  lurched  forward, 
back,  and  then  forward  again;  with  a  final  re- 
monstrating grunt,  jemal  straightened  out  his 
numerous  joints  and  was  on  his  feet.  We  were 
soon  following  between  mud  walls  and  palm- 
trees  of  the  oasis  of  Tripoli  to  the  Desert. 

"Hike!  hike!"  yelled  Mahmood,  whereupon 
the  brute  broke  into  a  lumbering,  racking  jog. 
The  camel's  natural  gait,  both  in  walking  and 
running,  is  said  to  be  a  pace,  but,  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned,  it  might  have  been  a  centrifugal  back- 

[212] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

action  trying  to  describe  an  eccentric  rotary  mo- 
tion two  ways  at  once  on  cobblestones. 

''Adda!  adda!''  [turn  to  one  side]  shrieked  the 
Arab,  just  in  time  to  save  me  from  colHsion  with 
a  hedge  of  prickly  cactus.  The  camel,  with  head 
and  tail  outstretched  almost  horizontally,  was 
now  fairly  under  way.  The  cushion  had  slewed 
to  one  side,  and  I  gathered  my  knees  up  under 
me  and  clung  desperately  to  my  only  support, 
the  tree  of  the  pack-saddle,  in  order  to  avoid 
slipping  down  the  inclined  plane  of  his  rump. 

Set  a  section  of  a  North  Carolina  twelve-rail 
fence  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  in  a  farm- 
wagon,  straddle  this  and  have  the  whole  outfit, 
yourself  included,  run  away  with  over  a  rocky 
New  England  blueberry  pasture,  and  you  will 
form  a  mild  conception  of  the  sensation  of  riding 
a  baggage  camel  in  the  Sahara. 

"Hot!  hot!''  [slower],  bellowed  Mahmood, 
puffing  along  in  the  distance.  Praise  be  to  Allah ! 
the  jemal  obeyed. 

''Sh,  sh!"  [whoa],  gurgled  the  perspiring 
Mahmood. 

The  place  where  I  lit  was  soft  sand. 

I  walked  home. 

Often  in  the  twilight  of  early  mornings,  shortly 
[213] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

after  the  muezzin's  call  from  the  minaret  of  the 
neighboring  Djema-el-Daruj,  I  would  wind  my 
way  with  soft-scuffing  Arabs  through  the  narrow 
by-ways  of  Tripoli  to  the  great  sand  reach  of  the 
Suk-el-Tlialat  beyond  the  town  walls.  In  the 
obscure  light,  shacks,  muffled  figures,  heaps  of 
produce,  and  camels  humped  themselves  over  the 
sand  stretch  like  the  promontories  of  a  miniature 
mountain  range,  and  the  feathered  palms  of  the 
oasis  to  the  east  were  traced  in  violet  against  the 
forthcoming  rose  of  early  dawn.  Then  the  sun 
rose  over  them  and  painted  out  the  dim  mono- 
tone of  things  in  strong  contrasts  of  lights  and 
shades. 

Everywhere  was  the  jemal;  late  arrivals, 
heavily  loaded,  carefully  threaded  their  way 
along;  others,  relieved  of  their  loads,  stood  singly 
or  in  small  groups,  or  lay  resting  on  the  sand, 
often  acquiring  most  inconceivable  and  distorted 
positions,  bearing  out  the  remark  of  a  Tripoli 
friend  that  the  camel  with  his  stiff  legs  and  supple 
neck  was  "a  combination  of  serpent  and  lamp- 
post." 

With  every  group  of  camels  was  at  least  one 
caravaneer  left  to  guard  them,  and  he  was  usually 
found  seated  by  the  guns  of  his  comrades,  chat- 

[214] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

ting  perhaps,  with  neighboring  caravan  men. 
His  camels  were  hobbled  by  short  ropes  tied 
under  the  fetlock  of  the  fore  legs,  or,  in  the  case 
of  the  more  obstreperous,  a  fore  leg  was  doubled 
up,  and  in  this  position  securely  lashed.  Now 
and  then  the  caravaneer  rose  leisurely  and  tossed 
into  the  centre  of  the  caravan  [for  the  camels  are 
usually  facing  one  another  in  a  ring]  some  green 
fodder — bishna  or  shtell  [guinea  corn  cut  green], 
or  other  herbage  with  which  they  are  usually  fed 
in  the  suks  and  oases. 

To  the  stranger  the  greater  portion  of  the  Suk 
might  well  appear  a  camel  market,  but  go  to 
that  section  beyond  the  esparto  jetty,  bordering 
the  coast  road  which  leads  to  Sciara-el-Sciut  and 
Tajura.  Here  you  find  a  living,  dun-colored  sea 
of  camels ;  old  and  young,  male  and  female,  pure 
breeds  and  hybrids,  well-conditioned  and  ill- 
seasoned,  ranging  in  color  from  the  rare  black 
camel  through  the  various  values  of  dun  colors 
and  browns  to  snow  white.  This  is  the  camel 
market. 

Far  back  in  the  Jebel  and  plateau  lands  of  the 
Desert  the  various  Arab  and  Berber  tribes  breed 
and  raise  large  herds  of  camels,  pasturing  them 

on  the  wild  esparto  grass,  mimosa  bushes,  and 

[215] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  dry  camel  thorn  of  the  Desert,  from  all  of 
which  the  camel  derives  nutriment,  remarkable 
to  me  until  I  once  saw  a  camel  devour  with 
relish  a  piece  of  dry  wood.  The  principal  Tripoli 
camel  raisers  are  the  tribes  of  Jebel,  Sert,  Zin- 
tan,  Orfella,  and  Weled-Bu-Sef,  who,  with  the 
small  owners,  have,  it  is  estimated,  brought  the 
total  number  of  camels  to  four  hundred  thousand, 
or  one  camel  to  every  one  and  a  quarter  square 
miles  of  the  vilayet  of  Tripoli.  From  these  far- 
off  arid  breeding  grounds  I  have  passed  on  the 
trail  herds  of  camels  travelling  south  toward 
Murzuk,  there  to  be  sold  to  fill  up  the  gaps  in  the 
ranks  of  the  trans-Saharan  caravans  or  other 
herds  being  driven  north  toward  the  great  coast, 
trade  centres,  Bengazi  and  Tripoli,  where,  in 
the  jemal  Suk  of  Tripoli,  they  fetch,  generally, 
from  ten  to  thirty  dollars  per  head. 

But  follow  yonder  thickset  merchant,  he  with 
the  scarlet  haik  and  six  fezes  under  his  tightly 
wound  gold-embroidered  turban.  He  is  in 
search  of  an  exceptional,  full-grown  male  draught 
camel;  one  with  a  weight  of  close  on  to  twelve 
hundred  pounds;  which  can  stand  the  strain 
and  carry  his  goods  safely  the  six  to  eleven 
months  across   the   deserts   to   the  Sudan.     At 

[216] 


'i 


i.i 


y  . 


I'  I  f  -  'i"tilill  ■' 


!|i 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

last  he  stops  before  a  superb-looking  beast. 
The  top  of  its  great  shoulder  is  on  a  level  with 
the  Tripoline's  turban;  he  examines  the  moutli, 
tail,  feet,  and  skin,  and  runs  his  henna-stained 
fingers  through  the  long  woolly  hair  to  the  top  of 
its  hump,  seven  feet  from  the  ground;  this  he 
finds  full  and  firm. 

*'Gedash!  O  brother  of  many  camels,  is  this 
one  of  thy  herd?" 

*'May  Allah  lengthen  thy  age,  O  wealthy 
one,"  replied  the  swarthy  man  from  thewadan; 
"thou  hast  truly  picked  the  jew^el  of  my  eye." 

"Jewel,  sayest  thou,  but  one  of  ill  omen,  for 
truly  he  is  darkish  in  color." 

"By  the  Prophet,  throw  him  into  the  river  and 
he  will  rise  with  a  fish  in  his  mouth";  and  thus 
they  bartered  with  all  the  naivete  and  leisure  of 
the  Oriental  trader,  to  whom  time  is  invisible, 
but  medjidies  may  be  held  in  the  hand.  It  was 
not  until  the  morning  weaned  and  they  both  trod 
upon  their  own  shadows  that  the  sale  was  effected 
to  the  amount  of  sixty  dollars. 

"Baleuk!"  came  a  w^arning  cry  as  Riley  and 
I  steered  our  way  one  morning  through  the 
narrow  channel  ways  of  the  Suk. 

"That  was  a  close  call,"  said  he,  as  the  great 
[217] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

jaws  of  a  biter  swung  by  me  with  a  snap  like  a 
steel  trap.  "In  the  cold,  rainy  months  of  our 
winter  one  has  to  be  constantly  on  one's  guard. 
Only  a  short  time  ago  I  saw  a  Turkish  soldier 
lose  half  his  face  in  this  very  Suk ;  another  had  the 
end  of  his  elbow  torn  off.  Watch  the  reverse 
rotary  motion  of  that  camel's  chew,  and  the  fear- 
ful results  of  the  grinding  nature  of  his  sharp 
incisors  and  canine  teeth,  in  both  upper  and 
lower  jaw,  may  be  realized,  often  so  mashing  the 
bones  that  amputation  of  the  limb  is  neces- 
sary." 

In  passing  recumbent  camels  the  stranger 
need  watch  the  head  only,  but  when  on  their  feet, 
its  "heads  and  tails,"  for  a  camel  can  be  a  pow- 
erful kicker.  Such  are  the  means  of  defence  with 
which  nature  has  endowed  him  that  one  blow 
of  his  foot,  out  and  straight  behind,  will  drop 
most  animals  to  the  earth;  then,  kneeling  on  his 
victim  and  using  his  strong  neck  as  a  leverage, 
he  tears  him  to  pieces  with  his  huge  jaws.  Biters 
are  often  muzzled,  as  are  always  camels  of  cara- 
vans bearing  guinea  corn  or  barley,  to  keep  them 
from  biting  through  the  sacks.  The  majority  of 
the  camels  are  by  no  means  naturally  vicious, 
and  much  of  their  ugliness  is  due  to  the  lack  of 

[218] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

care  and  brutal  treatment  of  hired  drivers.  It  is 
said  that  camels  never  forget  a  kindness  or  an 
injury. 

At  times,  perhaps  from  the  heat,  or  without 
apparent  cause,  the  camel  is  seized  with  a  ter- 
rific frenzy;  then  look  out — for  he  will  attack 
driver,  other  camels,  or  any  living  thing.  But, 
on  the  whole,  this  ancient  burden-bearer  of  man 
is  a  dignified,  long-suffering,  lugubrious  anom- 
aly, his  joylessness  being  tersely  expressed  in  the 
answer  to  the  Arab  riddle,  "Why  has  the  camel 
a  split  lip .?" 

"Because  once  a  camel  tried  to  laugh." 

He  is  not  aggressive;  his  indifference  toward 
man  seems  almost  contemptuous.  He  is  imper- 
turbable and  patient  beyond  precedent,  and  on 
the  march  w^ill  continue  to  stagger  on  until  his 
last  ounce  of  strength  has  been  exhausted. 

Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  he  dislikes  isola- 
tion from  man  or  his  own  kind.  He  has  an 
endless  repertoire  of  the  most  unearthly  noises, 
dominant  among  which  is  a  sound  best  likened 
to  blowing  bubbles  in  a  basin  of  water  under 
forced  draught  and  in  a  minor  key. 

I  well  remember  one  camel  which  stood  apart 
from  the  others  yawping  a  solo  far  out  on  the 

[  219  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

plain.  Well  fed,  unhobbled,  and  unburdened 
save  for  his  saddle,  he  had  every  reason  to  be 
happy,  but  there  he  stood  with  mouth  agape, 
belching  forth,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  just  out  of 
pure  cussedness.  The  noise  rolled  away  over  the 
Desert  in  great  volumes  of  sound — a  voice  crying 
in  the  wilderness. 

"The  horse,"  say  the  town  Arabs,  "is  a  gen- 
tleman, the  camel  a  boor."  Not  only  has  the 
latter  been  loaded  with  literal  burdens  heavier 
than  he  should  bear  and  with  the  unjust  igno- 
miny of  a  mean  disposition,  but  he  has  also  been 
saddled,  figuratively  speaking,  with  the  respon- 
sibilities of  the  vindictive  tempers  of  certain 
Arabs,  because  of  feeding  on  his  flesh.  To  me 
he  seems  to  be,  in  one  respect  at  least,  like  his 
Arab  master — a  fatalist. 

In  one  corner  of  the  Suk  a  camel  doctor  sat 
beside  a  forge  of  hot  coals  held  in  a  native  earth- 
enware stove,  occasionally  blowing  them  with 
his  bellows  and  adjusting  the  heating  irons. 
Now  and  then  an  Arab  approaching  him  with  his 
camel  would  consult  him,  perhaps  about  lame- 
ness or  ophthalmia.  One  Hadji  came  leading  a 
limping  camel.  As  firing  was  considered  the  cure, 
as  for  many  ills,  it  was  first  necessary  to  render 

[220] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

the  patient  powerless.  The  "doctor"  called 
from  the  neighboring  coffee-booth  a  number  of 
men;  the  owner  ordered  the  animal  to  kneel 
across  a  piece  of  rope  stretched  on  the  sand, 
whereupon  the  fore  legs  and  a  hind  leg  were  se- 
curely lashed  to  his  body.  Two  of  the  men  sat 
upon  his  muzzled  head;  the  lame  leg,  to  which 
a  rope  had  been  fastened  at  the  hock  joint,  was 
pulled  to  its  full  length  and  the  injured  tendon 
seared  by  the  "doctor." 

Turning  from  the  distasteful  sight,  I  followed 
the  edge  of  the  sand.  Not  many  yards  from  the 
shore  the  gurgling,  groaning  sound  of  a  jemal 
mingling  with  the  swash  of  the  Mediterranean 
attracted  my  attention  to  where  two  Blacks  had 
forced  a  half-submerged  camel  to  his  knees, 
where  they  scrubbed  and  scoured  his  hide. 
This  is  a  common  sight  off  the  Tripoli  Suk,  for 
camels  not  only  can  be  made  to  enter  water,  thus 
making  excellent  fording  animals,  but  are  fine 
swimmers  as  well. 

We  continued  on  toward  the  town.  Its  green- 
topped  minarets  which  spiked  the  blue  sky 
seemed  gradually  to  telescope  below  her  bastion 
walls,  and  we  passed  under  the  Outer  Gate  to 

lunch  and  siesta. 

[221] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Ever  and  anon  there  would  float  in  through 
my  window  the  blatant  sound  of  the  jemal,  whose 
defiant,  gurgling  groan  outvied  all  other  noises 
as  it  echoed  down  the  narrow  street. 

One  early  morning  a  pandemonium  below  my 
window  awoke  me.  "Baleuk!  Bur-r-ro!"  rose 
above  the  din  of  men  and  beasts  as  two  drivers 
battered  one  another  with  their  camel  sticks. 
It  was  the  old  story  of  a  head-on  meeting  in  a 
narrow  way.  Finally,  by  order  of  a  town  watch- 
man who  happened  along,  one  of  the  heavily 
burdened  camels  was  made  to  lie  down,  thus 
enabling  the  other  to  squeeze  by. 

Another  time,  turning  quickly  toward  my  win- 
dow as  a  flash  of  light  chased  across  the  walls 
of  my  room,  I  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  silvery 
point  of  a  spear  head  undulate  by  the  window 
ledge.  As  I  surmised,  it  belonged  to  a  mehari- 
mounted  Arab  from  the  south.  He  was  a  pictu- 
resque figure,  this  bronzed  man  of  the  Desert,  in 
white  burnoose,  and  turban  bound  with  camel's- 
hair  cord,  as  he  lurched  along, — a  part  of  the 
tall,  majestic  beast  he  rode.  The  mehari,  or  rid- 
ing camel,  was  rare  in  northern  Tripoli;  so, 
seizing  my  sun  helmet,  I  followed  on  his  trail 
through  the  town, 

[222] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

His  fine  breeding  was  evident  at  a  glance. 
Compared  with  the  common  jemal  he  was  a 
supple,  slender,  elegant  creature,  with  shorter 
tail,  smaller  ears,  and  more  protruding  chest. 
His  dark,  heavily  lashed  eyes  in  a  gracefully 
formed  head  seemed  lustrous  and  appealing, 
and  the  tawny-colored  coat,  as  soft  as  that  of  a 
jerboa,  bore  every  evidence  of  care  on  the  part  of 
its  owner.  Piercing  the  right  nostril  a  bridle- 
ring  hung  to  one  side  of  its  long,  firm  lips,  which 
well  concealed  its  teeth.  From  this  ring  a  single 
rein  flapped  loosely  under  its  jaw,  passing  around 
the  opposite  side  of  its  neck  to  the  rider,  who 
was  securely  ensconced  between  the  horn  and 
cantle  of  a  beautiful  leather-worked  riding  sad- 
dle. This  was  securely  fastened  over  its  hump 
by  a  belly-girth;  the  rider,  sitting  cross-legged 
athwart  the  pommel,  rested  his  feet  in  the  hollow 
of  the  mehari's  neck. 

The  surging  motion  of  a  mehari  may  at  first 
cause  nausea  to  the  rider,  but,  this  condition 
overcome,  one  seems  to  be  moving  onward  as 
over  a  long  ground-swell  at  sea,  and  many  con- 
sider the  mehari  less  fatiguing  over  long  distances 
than  the  horse.  Fabled  accounts  of  its  speed  are 
a  part  of  Arab  tradition.    Despite  the  extremely 

[223] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

slender  character  of  its  legs  below  the  knee,  it  is 
wiry  and  muscular  and  can  average  thirty  miles 
a  day  under  a  weight  of  three  hundred  pounds 
of  rider  and  outfit  for  long  distances. 

On  account  of  its  speed  it  is  often  used  as  a 
transmitter  of  important  despatches — the  tele- 
graph of  the  Arab.  The  Bedawi  of  the  Egyp- 
tian Sudan  still  remember  Gordon  for  the  fast 
work  of  his  last  memorable  ride  of  four  hundred 
and  three  miles  in  nine  days,  including  halts,  and 
Burckhardt  gives  an  account  of  a  mehari  doing 
one  hundred  and  fifteen  miles  in  eleven  hours, 
which  included  forty  minutes  occupied  in  being 
twice  carried  across  the  Nile. 

I  followed  the  mehari  out  beyond  the  city  walls 
to  its  owner's  camp  in  the  Suk.  Here  the  Arab 
let  go  the  rein,  at  which  it  stopped.  "Kh!'* 
[kneel],  he  ejaculated.  "Kh!"  at  the  same  time 
gently  striking  its  right  shoulder  with  his  san- 
dalled foot,  and  dismounted. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  camel  in  town  and 
Suk  had  inspired  me  with  a  constantly  growing 
respect  and  interest  long  before  I  struck  his  trail 
in  the  Desert.  Many  a  night  I  have  ridden  be- 
side him,  seen  him  pass  noiselessly  through  the 
palm  groves,  watched  their  moonlight  shadows 

[224] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

wriggle  snakelike  over  his  gaunt,  dusky  form, 
or,  out  under  the  stars  in  the  open  Desert,  sensed 
his  vague  spectre  as  it  merged  itself  into  the  tone 
of  night  and  the  sand.  I  have  listened  in  the 
darkness  to  the  peaceful  chewing  of  cuds  in  the 
Desert  fonduks,  avoided  the  mad  rush  for  water 
at  some  long-scented  pool,  or  in  the  heat  of  day 
seen  his  undulating  shadow  creep  along  beside 
that  of  my  horse,  and  then,  from  under  my  sun 
helmet,  have  looked  up  at  him  slouching  along 
with  his  great  load,  ungainly,  disproportionate, 
a  connecting  link  between  the  ruminant  and  the 
pachyderm. 

For  hours  at  a  time  I  have  ridden  before,  be- 
side, and  behind  him,  ever  fascinated  by  the  study 
of  his  strange  temperament  and  stranger  struct- 
ure; a  structure  which  is  impressively  adapted 
to  his  needs,  making  him  like  the  Arab — a  creat- 
ure of  his  environment. 

His  small  nostrils,  which  seem  to  heighten  the 
benign  expression  of  his  ever- twitching  upper 
lip,  can  be  so  closed  as  to  keep  out  the  finest  sand 
of  the  terrific  gibli.  Protected,  too,  by  their  long, 
heavy  lashes  are  his  dark,  protruding  eyes,  over- 
shadowed by  their  beetling  brows  which  break 
the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun  glare  overhead.     On 

[225] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

those  parts  of  his  body  most  subjected  to  con- 
tact with  heat  and  friction  great  callosities  are 
formed  which  act  as  sort  of  buffers;  the  largest 
on  his  chest,  one  on  each  elbow  and  knee,  and 
two  on  each  hock.  View  him  broadside,  and  the 
contrast  in  his  build  fore-and-aft  must  impress 
even  the  casual  observer,  for  he  seems  to  fall 
away  behind. 

Sometimes,  when  the  monotony  of  heat  and 
sand  became  unbearable,  I  would  sift  back 
through  the  caravan  until  I  found  Sarabi  and 
Hallil-ben-Hassam,  her  one-eyed  driver.  Sarabi 
was  a  beautiful  white  nakat  [she  camel].  Hallil, 
so  it  was  rumored,  had  destroyed  an  eye  to  avoid 
conscription  in  Egypt;  then,  wandering  across  the 
Libyan  Desert  and  the  wild,  dangerous  regions 
of  Barca,  he  at  last,  with  Sarabi,  reached  Tripoli. 

Mile  upon  mile  I  would  watch  her  great  nail- 
tipped  cushioned  feet  squdge  noiselessly,  along, 
lift  and  fall,  lift  and  fall,  the  under  sides  reflect- 
ing the  sand,  like  lighted  orange  disks  glimpsing 
in  her  violet-blue  shadow.  The  hinder  ones  on 
their  delicate  leg  shafts  would  let  into  the  shadow 
a  streak  of  sunlight  which  reflected  on  the 
heavier,  stronger  fore  legs  which  seem  in  all 
camels  to  be  bent  the  wrong  way  at  the  knee. 

[  226  ] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

S-c-u-f-f !  and  now  and  again  a  cloud  of  golden 
sand  dust,  always  a  deeper  orange  than  the  sur- 
face, would  be  kicked  out  from  under  her,  sift- 
ing, scintillating  away  into  the  brilliant  sunshine. 

"Hallil,"  said  I,  "how  much  water  will  a  full- 
grown  camel  drink  ?" 

*'0  Father  of  Glasses"  [for  I  wore  spectacles], 
replied  he,  lowering  the  square  Arab  fan  with 
which  he  often  shaded  his  eye,  "thou  askest  me 
something  of  a  riddle.  When  dwelling  in  a  town 
or  oasis,  water  thy  camel  as  thou  wouldst  thy 
mare,  and  it  will  drink  but  enough  for  a  time; 
but  on  the  march  thy  jemal  knows  well  how  to 
make  provision  for  the  morrow  to  the  amount  of 
twelve  garaffs  [four  quarts],  so  say  those  who 
have  sacrificed  him  on  the  trail  to  quench  their 
thirst.  But  at  the  end  of  a  journey  have  a  care, 
for  many  a  jemal  dies  at  the  pool  on  drinking  at 
such  times  on  an  empty  stomach.  After  a  long 
march  and  feeding,  Sarabi  has  drunk  well-nigh 
to  forty  jarras  [twenty  gallons],  and  my  people 
say  that  camels  have  gone  fifteen  days  w^ithout 
taking  fresh  water." 

"Burro!"  shouted  Hallil  at  a  jemal  which  had 
jammed  against  Sarabi's  load;  and  he  left  me  in 
order  to  adjust  her  heavy  packs. 

[227] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

This  was  an  important  matter,  for  a  light  load 
ill  balanced  is  more  disastrous  to  a  camel  than 
a  well-adjusted  heavy  one.  Where  loads  are 
not  easily  balanced  Arabs  will  use  stones  or  bags 
of  sand  as  a  counterweight.  So  important  is  it 
that  the  loads  do  not  gall  or  chafe  the  shoulders 
and  hump  that  a  careful  driver  will  ever  be  on 
the  alert  to  arrange  the  cushions,  often  using 
green  fodder  when  nothing  else  is  available. 
Sarabi's  load  had  shifted  forward,  and  Hallil 
proceeded  to  pull  from  the  open  end  of  the  cush- 
ions under  the  pack-saddle  great  handfuls  of 
straw,  which  he  stuffed  into  the  forward  cush- 
ions. The  wooden  frame  of  the  saddle  itself  is 
fashioned  after  the  primitive  saddles,  which  were 
made  from  the  shoulder-blades  and  bones  of 
animals. 

So  wonderfully  is  the  camel  adapted  to  his 
environment  that  he  not  only  is  provided  with 
his  own  water-bottle,  so  to  speak,  but  also  with 
his  own  larder  through  that  strange  protuber- 
ance of  adipose  tissue,  the  hump,  which  on  long 
journeys  is  absorbed  into  his  system,  so  that  lit- 
erally, as  the  Arabs  say,  *'he  feeds  on  his  hump." 
During  months  of  rest  or  little  exercise  the  hump 
increases  in  size  and  even  flops  over  and  some- 

[228] 


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CAMEL  TRAILS 

times  grows  so  full  that  the  skin  on  either  side  is 
cut  and  lifted;  large  pieces  of  adipose  tissue  are 
then  sliced  off  and  the  skin  sewn  down  again. 
These  pieces  are  considered  a  great  delicacy  by 
the  Arabs. 

Beside  Sarabi  trotted  a  spindle-legged  little 
bunch  of  soft,  curly  wool,  as  snow  white  as  the 
mother.  Occasionally  the  little  foal,  but  six 
weeks  old,  ventured  to  sport  about  some  yards 
away.  During  a  sand-storm  the  mother  shields 
the  young,  and  during  the  cold  winds  of  winter 
two  camels  will  often  place  the  young  between 
them. 

There  is  no  doubt  but  that  on  the  march  cam- 
els are  soothed  and  cheered  by  the  wild  Desert 
songs  of  the  garfla  men,  songs  undoubtedly  in- 
duced by  the  long,  monotonous  "voyages"  and 
composed  to  the  regular  swaying  lurch-lurch 
of  the  rider  or  the  steady  shambling  swing  of  the 
jemal.  Its  four  heavy  steps  are  said  to  have 
given  the  metre,  and  the  alternations  of  long  and 
short  syllables  in  the  spoken  language,  the  suc- 
cessive pulsations  of  the  metre. 

The  old  Arabian  poetry  is  pervaded  with  the 

story  and  legend  of  the  tending  of  camels,  and 

words  and  metaphors  based  upon  him  or  his  life 

[229] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

are  in  daily  use  for  all  manner  of  strange  pur- 
poses. Time  or  death,  for  instance,  is  compared 
to  a  drinking  camel : 

"Deep  was  the  first  draught,  deep  the  next,  no  stint  was 
there. 
When  Time  gulped  down  the  great  of  al-Aswad   and   of 
Attab." 

While  a  tribe  bereft  of  its  chief  by  plague  is 
likened  to  Death  with  a  herd  of  camels,  to  whose 
fonduk  they  must  all  come  home,  some  sooner, 
some  later. 

"And  to-day  they  wander  a  trembling  herd,  their  kinsman 
Death. 
One  speeds  away  to  his  rest  at  eve,  one  stays  till  dawn." ' 

And  so,  "as  goes  a  camel  heavy-laden,  even- 
paced,"  the  "baggager"  moves  onward,  at  times 
to  the  song  of  the  march  or  the  wild  resonant 
note  of  the  oboe  and  the  beat  of  the  gimbreh. 

He  can  carry  from  three  to  six  hundred 
pounds,  according  to  his  size,  being  usually 
loaded  with  about  one-third  his  own  weight. 

"Look,  Sahib!"  said  Hallil  one  forenoon,  as 
he  pointed  to  a  far-away  distant  hill  where  five 
dark  spots  broke  up  its  soomth  surface  and  slipped 

•  From  the  "Hamasah,"  an  anthology  compiled  in  the  ninth  cen- 
tury, A.  D.,  by  Abu  Tammam. 

[230] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

out  of  sight,  to  appear  again  an  hour  later.  Five 
mehara  passed  us,  the  last  a  black  camel.  Hallil 
muttered  something  under  his  breath,  a  curse  or 
a  prayer  I  wot  not,  then,  turning,  he  looked  at 
me.  "'Tis  written  on  the  cucumber  leaf" 
[known  everywhere]  "that  a  black  camel  is 
surely  a  sign  of  death."  Perhaps  I  detected  a 
slight  satisfaction  in  the  blink  of  the  one  eye  of 
this  owner  of  a  milk-white  camel. 

Camels  when  in  caravan  are  sometimes  driven 
in  Indian  file,  tied  headstall  to  tail,  and  occa- 
sionally, as  is  practised  in  some  parts  of  Egypt, 
by  the  rope  of  the  nose-ring  to  tail;  the  cruel 
consequence  may  be  easily  imagined  if  the  for- 
ward camel  falls  or  perhaps  stampedes.  But 
usually,  particularly  in  Tripoli,  they  are  driven 
in  droves  or  string  out  irregularly  over  the  Des- 
ert, which  is  a  more  natural  and  humane  way, 
besides  being  the  most  practical. 

At  times  it  is  necessary  to  punish  a  fractious 
camel;  then  his  driver  falls  upon  him  with  a 
large  flat  club  and  beats  him  unmercifully  on  the 
neck,  just  back  of  the  jaw,  until  the  poor  beast 
rolls  to  the  ground  and  remains  motionless. 

It  has  been  estimated  that  one  out  of  every 
two  camels  dies  before  it  reaches  jSve  years  of 

[231] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

age.  The  camel  under  man's  care  would  un- 
doubtedly thrive  in  almost  every  country,  but  it 
is  to  the  tropics  that  he  seems  best  adapted. 
There,  on  the  long  marches,  everything  must  be 
sacrificed  to  his  welfare,  for  on  him  depends  the 
success  of  the  caravan  or  the  safe  arrival  of  his 
master  at  the  journey's  end.  Over  stony  ground 
or  rocky  mountain  paths  his  soft-cushioned  feet 
become  cut  and  bruised;  but  it  is  on  slippery 
ground  or  in  quicksand  that  the  camel,  feeling 
himself  slide  or  beginning  to  sink,  loses  his  head 
and  flounders  about.  Sometimes  he  splits  himself 
up,  or,  struggling  in  the  quicksand,  breaks  a 
leg  or  disjoints  a  hip.  Then  the  heavy  load  is 
dragged  off  his  back,  a  crescent  blade  flashes  in 
the  sunlight,  or  bang!  goes  a  long  flint-lock,  and 
another  victim  is  added  to  the  unending  death  roll. 
Sometimes,  following  down  the  Arbar-Arsat, 
I  would  turn  into  a  narrow  by-way,  and,  passing 
from  the  hot  street,  would  enter  a  small,  dark 
building  used  as  a  corn  mill.  Ensconced  in  a 
dusty  seat  in  a  far  corner,  I  would  watch  Nageeb 
plod  softly  and  uncertainly  round  and  round  the 
pivot  of  the  millstone.  A  few  dim  rays  sifted 
down  from  the  roof  through  a  drapery  of  cob- 
webs on  to  Nageeb's  gaunt,  mangy  hide  and  shed 

[232] 


CAMEL  TRAILS 

a  scant  light  over  his  path.  But  it  mattered  little 
to  him,  for  Nageeb  was  blind,  and  near  to  blind- 
ness, too,  was  old  Bakri,  his  master,  who  now 
and  again  emptied  corn  into  the  mill  and  shov- 
elled up  that  which  was  ground. 

Ten  years  before  the  shrill  "Lu-lu-lu"  cry  of 
welcome  of  the  women  and  the  firing  of  guns 
had  announced  the  arrival  of  a  long-looked-for 
caravan,  eleven  months'  journey  from  the  Sudan 
and  Nageeb,  one  of  the  remaining  few^  who  had 
commenced  the  voyage,  exhausted  and  broken 
by  the  long  strain,  staggered  *'camelfully"  with 
his  load  into  the  Suk-el-Burka.  It  was  his  last 
journey  with  the  garfla,  and  old  Bakri,  then  in 
need  of  a  camel,  had  picked  him  up  in  the  Suk 
for  a  song. 

But  Nageeb  had  made  the  rounds  of  fifty 
Ramadans — more  than  the  usual  years  allotted 
to  camel.  Before  long,  on  some  Suk  day,  old 
Bakri's  mill  will  cease  its  grinding,  and  leaving 
the  Arab  butcher  shops  of  the  Suk-el-Thalet, 
his  bent,  turbaned  form  will  bear  away  a  mangy 
pelt.  "Even  so!"  his  cry  will  be  heard  about  the 
market.  "Even  so!  The  hide  of  my  brown 
camel  for  a  trifle.  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet, 
it  is  excellent." 

[233] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

A    night's    ride    with    ARAB    BANDITS 

MUCH  of  my  travelling  was  tiresome  and 
monotonous.  As  a  rule,  the  Turkish  and 
Arab  officials  were  courteous,  and  the  people  in 
both  towns  and  country  were  rarely  deliberately 
annoying.  Most  of  the  people  worked  at  hon- 
est labor,  and  it  is  not  these  that  the  traveller  as 
a  rule  has  to  fear,  but  certain  hostile  Desert 
tribes,  marauding  town  and  Desert  thieves. 
There  is  a  saying  in  the  Sahara  that  *' unless  a 
man  is  killed,  he  lives  forever."  By  Desert  law 
the  act  of  passing  through  those  wastes  practically 
entails  forfeiture  of  goods  to  whoever  can  seize 
them;  so  highway  robbery  is  not  only  practised, 
but  is,  by  a  large  class,  generally  conceded  to  be 
right. 

In  Tripoli,  as  in  most  semitropical  countries, 
too  careful  consideration  cannot  be  given  to 
one's  mode  of  diet  and  dress.  Easily  digested 
foods  and  boiled  water  are  essential  to  the  Occi- 

[234] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

dental  traveller.  From  experience  I  found  that 
a  suit  of  khaki,  a  thick  flannel  shirt,  light  under- 
wear, and  the  indispensable  flannel  cholera  belt 
[to  protect  the  stomach  and  back  from  the  sun] 
and  sun  helmet  were  the  most  practical  and  com- 
fortable clothing.  To  wear  an  ordinary  straw 
hat  in  the  Desert  would  rashly  invite  sunstroke. 

I  carried  no  tent,  but  frequently  needed  my 
blanket  at  night.  Once  when  camping  by  a 
small  lake  near  the  coast,  my  men  improvised 
a  tent  out  of  Mohammed's  baracan,  my  sketching 
umbrella,  and  the  rushes.  Under  my  rug  was 
always  spread  a  piece  of  palm  matting  to  render 
less  direct  the  attacks  of  sand  fleas  which  abound 
in  the  oases. 

My  meals  usually  consisted  of  Arab  bread, 
fresh  eggs,  tea,  and  fruits.  Sometimes  we  bought 
these  and  occasionally  chickens  from  fondiik 
keepers  or  Bedawi.  When  we  had  occasion  to 
carry  a  watermelon  for  half  a  day  on  the  don- 
key's pack,  the  melon  became  heated  through 
and  through  by  the  sun;  but,  on  cutting  it  open, 
the  slightest  breeze,  no  matter  how  hot,  caused 
immediate  evaporation,  and  within  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  the  melon  would  actually  seem  cool  to 
one's  taste.    Water  was  boiled  when  feasible, 

[235] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  we  took  as  large  a  stock  of  it  as  we  could 
conveniently  carry,  sometimes  in  coolers,  some- 
times in  a  goat-skin.  The  wells  were  occasionally 
dry  or  foul,  and  water  contained  in  earthen  jars 
at  fonduks  was  often  stagnant  or  ill  cared  for. 
Mohammed  usually  acted  as  cook.  Not  only 
our  menu  but  our  culinary  outfit  was  a  simple 
affair — a  small  earthen  stove  and  a  few  dry 
palm  leaves  for  fuel.  Over  this  he  brewed  tea, 
boiled  eggs,  and  even  roasted  chicken.  Often  at 
evening  I  would  stretch  out  on  my  rug  and 
watch  the  low  glow  of  the  embers  trace  a  line  of 
crimson  down  his  profile  or  a  flicker  illumine  his 
swarthy  face,  and  cast  his  big  shadow  on  some 
tree  trunk  or  fonduk  wall.  Then,  too,  I  had 
other  than  aesthetic  reasons  for  watching  him, 
for  chopped  horsehair  in  one's  food  does  not  go 
well  in  one's  insides,  and  is  no  more  conducive  to 
good  health  than  poisoned  ground-glass  parti- 
cles surreptitiously  deposited  in  one's  shoes. 
Many  a  night  I  would  lie  awake,  looking  up  at 
the  silver  stars  into  the  far-off  silent  night,  then 
fall  asleep — to  sleep  lightly,  as  was  my  habit 
when  in  the  open — and  lack  of  sleep  more  than 
anything  else  was  the  most  trying  part  of  my 
travelling. 

[236] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

On  the  mountain  slopes  we  often  started  cov- 
eys of  partridges,  and  out  on  the  sandy  Desert 
great  carrion  crows  would  flap  across  our  trail. 
In  some  sections  lions  are  found,  but  I  never 
ran  across  one.  Now  and  again  we  would  spend 
a  few  hours  in  one  of  the  Desert  towns  to 
replenish  our  supplies.  In  the  low  tablelands  as 
we  approached  the  Jebel  Nagahza  Mountains 
we  came  upon  some  Bedawi  shacks,  generally 
guarded  by  white  wolflike  dogs.  About  these 
habitations  the  Bedawi  plant  their  gardens,  sur- 
rounding them  by  low  mud  walls.  Sometimes 
a  Bedaween  family  will  return  to  the  same  spot 
at  certain  seasons,  year  after  year,  the  sheik  fre- 
quently leaving  some  male  member  in  charge 
during  the  family's  peregrinations. 

A  large  onion  plant  is  an  important  factor  in 
agricultural  districts,  not  as  an  article  of  food, 
for  even  a  goat  will  not  touch  it  [it  is  said  to  be 
poisonous],  but  as  a  sort  of  Arab  "registry  of 
deeds."  The  country  Arabs  keep  no  written 
record  of  their  real-estate  transactions;  land  is 
handed  from  father  to  son,  and  its  divisions  and 
subdivisions  set  off  by  rows  of  these  scattered 
plants,  their  great  bulbs  protruding  above  the 
soil. 

[237] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

One  day  over  hot  rock  wastes  of  the  Jebel  Na- 
gahza  we  rode  our  exhausted  horses  fifteen  long 
hours,  trying  to  cover  their  heads  as  much  as 
possible  with  our  own  shadows.  Almost  every 
step  was  a  stumble,  for  we  had  little  hope  of  their 
surviving  the  hard,  staggering  pull  over  the  last 
stretch  of  mountain  trail.  It  was  a  test  not  only 
of  endurance,  but  of  ability — on  my  part,  at  least 
— to  appear  unobservant  of  certain  circumstances, 
for  I  had  suspected  Muraiche,  suspected  him  of 
an  indefinite  something ;  but  the  workings  of  his 
wily  old  Arab  mind,  its  reasons  and  its  purposes, 
were  to  me  as  mysterious  as  the  great  wastes  of 
the  Sahara  over  which  we  had  been  travelling,  and 
as  elusive  as  the  noxious  sand  lizards  which  now 
and  again  scurried  from  beneath  our  horses'  feet. 

The  long,  hot  caravan  trail  at  sundown  emp- 
tied us  into  the  little  Arab  town  of  Khoms. 
Here  we  parted  with  a  caravan,  forty  camels 
strong,  bound  for  Misurata,  with  which  we  had 
travelled  for  the  last  three  days.  Mohammed 
and  Ali  were  on  foot  and  drove  the  big  pack 
donkey;  while  Muraiche,  like  myself,  rode  an 
Arab  stallion.  His  bent  old  figure,  now  ahead 
of  me,  now  by  my  side,  seemed  lost  in  the  folds 

of  his  baracan. 

[238] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

Since  sunrise,  as  we  approached  Khoms,  a 
change  had  come  over  Muraiche;  he  no  longer 
obeyed  my  orders  with  alacrity,  and  when,  sev- 
eral times,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  repeat 
them  sharply  he  seemed  to  awaken  with  a  start 
from  deep  meditation.  This  at  the  time  I 
attributed  to  the  fatigue  of  our  journey  and  an- 
ticipated relaxation,  for  a  rest  had  been  promised 
at  Khoms.  Following  the  custom  of  the  coun- 
try, I  reported  to  the  Turkish  governor  on  our 
arrival,  and  saw  my  men  and  animals  comfort- 
ably fixed  in  a  fonduk,  with  orders  to  have  every- 
thing in  readiness  to  start  the  following  after- 
noon; then  spent  the  night  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Tate,  the  only  Englishman  in  the  place. 

This  night  in  mid  July  and  the  following 
night,  strangely  different,  stand  out  strongly  in 
my  memory — perhaps  for  the  contrast  with  the 
dusty,  monotonous  travelling  of  other  days  and 
the  sleeping  in  dirty  fondiiks;  or,  perhaps,  in 
contrast  with  each  other.  If  you  would  know 
the  pleasure  of  bathing,  of  sleeping  beneath  the 
snow-white  sheets  of  a  bed,  travel  day  after  day 
on  the  burning,  scorching,  yellow-red  sand  of 
the  Sahara;  fill  your  eyes,  nose,  and  ears,  your 
very  soul  with  its  fine  powdered  dust;   tie  your 

[239] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

handkerchief,  after  the  manner  of  the  Tuaregs, 
across  your  mouth  to  prevent  evaporation,  that 
your  throat  may  not  parch  too  much.  Travel 
early  and  late  to  make  the  most  of  the  cool  of  the 
morning  and  evening.  Sleep  lightly  if  you  are 
a  lone  stranger,  and  do  not  mind  the  uncom- 
fortable lump  of  your  pistol-holsters  under  your 
arm;  they  are  better  in  your  hands  than  in  the 
other  fellow's.  So  when,  sunburnt,  saddle-sore, 
and  tired  with  long  riding  and  little  sleep,  you 
find,  what  I  did,  a  bath  of  delicious  cold  water, 
brought  from  an  old  Roman  well  still  used  by 
the  Arabs  in  Khoms,  and  a  snow-white  bed,  give 
praise  to  Allah.  Then  let  the  barbaric  noises  of 
a  wild  Sudanese  dance  in  the  distance  and  the 
musical  chant  of  the  Muezzin  melt  away  with 
your  thoughts  into  the  quiet  of  the  African  night. 
Bright  and  early  the  next  morning  a  Turkish 
soldier  brought  to  the  house  an  invitation  for  an 
audience  with  the  Governor,  and  I  was  ushered 
into  his  official  apartments  in  company  with 
Muraiche  and  the  Chief  of  Police,  a  half-breed 
Arab-Negro.  Our  conversation  was  translated, 
through  two  interpreters,  from  English  into 
Arabic  and  from  Arabic  into  Turkish,  and  vice 
versa. 

[  240  ] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

I  explained  to  his  Excellency  how  I  regretted 
our  inability  to  converse  directly  with  one  an- 
other. He  naively  replied  that  it  mattered  not, 
as  he  would  look  with  four  eyes  instead  of  two, 
which  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  he  did  while 
I  was  in  the  vicinity  of  Khoms.  Meantime, 
Turkish  coffee  was  served  with  the  inevitable 
cigarette,  and  the  customary  diplomatic  saluta- 
tions, etc.,  effervesced  back  and  forth.  I  still 
wonder  in  just  what  manner  and  form  mine 
eventually  reached  him. 

On  coming  out  I  found  our  horses  at  the  pal- 
ace gate,  and  also  a  mounted  zabtie  [Turkish 
guard]  who  had  been  assigned  to  conduct  me 
about  the  Roman  ruins  of  Lebda,  which  had 
formerly  occupied  the  site  and  neighborhood  of 
Khoms.  We  rode  east  from  the  city  out  into  the 
plain,  passed  down  a  small  ravine  from  whose 
sides  I  picked  out  some  fragments  of  Roman 
pottery,  and  soon  came  to  a  large  depression  in 
the  landscape.  In  the  bed  of  this  were  reeds, 
through  which  a  broad,  shallow  stream  mean- 
dered to  the  sea,  and  into  whose  waters  two  half- 
naked  Blacks  were  casting  a  net.  This  depres- 
sion had  once  been  a  splendid  Roman  harbor, 
flanked  on  either  side  by  massive  stone  quays 

[21-1] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  majestic  buildings.  Portions  of  these  still 
remained,  including  the  ruins  of  a  large  Roman 
palace.  But  gone  is  this  legacy,  scattered  over 
the  plain  and  destroyed  by  ruthless  Arabs  and 
more  ruthless  Turks.  Some  sections,  too,  of 
the  great  stone  quays  remained;  but  where 
were  the  thousands  of  Mediterranean  galleys 
which  once  moored  to  those  piles  and  ring-bolts  ? 
Where  are  the  moving,  breathing  crowds,  in 
Roman  toga  and  Arab  baracan,  which  once 
thronged  those  quays  in  the  shadow  of  their 
classic  architecture  and  the  awnings  of  the  little 
booths  ? 

Wonderful  capitals  and  other  fragments  were 
lying  broken  and  marred  about  the  plain.  I 
smuggled  a  few  fragments  of  marble  details  into 
my  saddle-bags  unbeknown  to  the  guard,  for  so 
opposed  are  the  Turks  to  a  Christian's  acquiring 
or  even  interesting  himself  in  antiquities  that  the 
most  beautiful  sculptures  and  relics  are  often 
deliberately  destroyed.  Recently  a  statue  which 
was  taken  from  Khoms  to  Tripoli  for  the  gardens 
of  the  Turkish  Club  was  first  deliberately  mu- 
tilated by  knocking  off  the  head  and  arms,  pre- 
sumably that  it  might  not  attract  the  covetous 
eyes  of  some  dog  of  a  Christian. 

[242] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

Had  it  not  been  for  a  casual  stroll  through  the 
Suk  later  that  afternoon  my  men  might  now  be 
recounting  a  different  yarn  over  their  smoking 
kief  and  coos-coos.  Threading  my  way  among 
men,  animals,  shacks,  scattered  garden  produce, 
grains,  and  wares  which  covered  the  ground  in 
interesting  heaps,  and  pushing  through  a  small 
crowd  which  had  gathered  about  me,  their 
curiosity  and  cupidity  aroused  by  a  gold  filling 
in  one  of  my  teeth,  I  stopped  for  a  moment. 
For  there,  in  the  middle  of  an  open  space,  beside 
a  Marabout's  [saint's]  tomb  Muraiche  was  en- 
grossed in  a  low  conversation  with  one  of  the 
irregular  guards,  an  Arab  in  the  Turkish  em- 
ploy. Disappearing  unobserved  to  another  part 
of  the  Suk,  I  should  have  thought  no  more  about 
the  matter,  but  for  the  fact  that  when,  later  in 
the  morning,  these  two  met  in  my  presence,  by 
the  Governor's  palace,  they  omitted  the  custom- 
ary b'salaams  and  effusive  greetings  of  Moham- 
medan acquaintances,  and  by  no  word  or  sound 
betrayed  the  least  recognition. 

Reminding  Muraiche  of  my  previous  orders  to 
have  everything  in  readiness  by  two  o'clock, 
I  sauntered  up  to  lunch  at  Mr.  Tate's.  The 
route  to  my  next  point  of  destination,  the  little 

[243] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

town  of  Kussabat,  was  not  only  over  the  rough 
mountainous  range  of  the  Jebel  Gharian,  but  it 
was  considered  by  the  Arabs  dangerous  on 
account  of  thieves.  Being  under  the  necessity  of 
making  the  journey  that  day,  I  was  anxious  to 
arrive  there  by  sundown.  Consequently,  when, 
by  half-past  two,  none  of  my  outfit  put  in  an 
appearance,  one  of  the  house  servants  was  des- 
patched to  learn  the  reason. 

First  by  wily  excuses,  and  then  by  an  open 
mutiny,  my  men  delayed  the  departure  until 
half-past  five,  when,  by  threats  to  appeal  to  the 
Turkish  Pasha  to  have  them  thrown  into  prison 
and  engage  new  men,  we  were  finally  ready  to 
start. 

*'But  a  guard,  Arfi?"  Twice  Muraiche  had 
asked  the  question,  and  twice  I  answered  him 
that  the  Turkish  oflBcials  had  been  notified  of  my 
intention  to  depart  at  two  o'clock.  Had  they  in- 
tended to  send  a  guard  they  would  have  done  so. 
However,  being  desirous  of  conforming  to  cus- 
tom, Muraiche  was  sent  to  the  Governor's  palace 
with  instructions  to  report  our  departure,  but 
not  to  ask  for  a  guard,  as  I  personally  shared  in 
the  common  opinion  that  often  the  traveller  is 

safer  without  one. 

[244] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

I  watched  Muraiche  after  he  rounded  the 
corner  and  disappeared  at  a  gallop  down  the 
narrow  street  to  the  palace,  from  which,  imme- 
diately reappearing,  he  set  off  to  a  different 
quarter  of  the  town.  Questioned  on  his  return, 
he  replied  that  an  officer  had  sent  him  to  notify 
a  guard  who  was  to  go  with  us. 

"You'll  see  your  way  all  right,  for  the  full 
moon  ought  to  be  up  in  about  two  hours,  but 
ride  last,""  were  Tate's  parting  words.  It  was 
good  advice  and  had  often  been  given  me  before. 
To  travellers  in  North  Africa,  particularly  those 
among  the  French  colonists  of  Tunis  and  Algeria, 
the  saying,  "Never  allow  an  Arab  to  ride  behind 
you,"  has  become  an  adage,  and  this  night  in  the 
Gharian  I  proved  its  worth. 

We  rode  to  the  top  of  the  steep  trail,  down 
which  the  slanting  afternoon  sunbeams  shot  by 
in  golden  shafts.  Back  and  beyond  us  these  sun 
shafts  sped  until,  striking  the  white  walls  of 
Khoms,  they  broke,  spilling  over  them  a  flood  of 
orange  gold,  diffusing  her  surrounding  olive 
groves  and  date-palms  with  a  golden  green,  and 
through  the  shimmering,  sifting  gold  mist  above 
it  all  sparkled  a  scintillating  sea  of  blue.  Our 
course  now  lay  almost  due  south  to  the  region  of 

[245] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  Djebel  Gharian,  the  region  I  had  hoped  to 
enter  and  pass  through  by  day. 

Resting  on  the  site  of  ancient  Lebda,  my 
golden  city  of  Khoms  lay  nearly  an  hour's  ride 
behind  us,  and  as  yet  no  guard,  to  my  entire  sat- 
isfaction. This  was  short-lived,  however,  for 
soon  a  yell,  such  as  is  rarely  loosed  from  the 
throat  of  a  human  being,  caused  us  suddenly  to 
draw  rein.  Down  the  steep,  rocky  incline,  where 
an  ordinary  horseman  could  but  carefully  pick 
his  way,  out  on  to  the  sandy  plateau  upon  which 
we  had  just  ridden,  riding  wild  and  giving  his 
lithe  animal  free  rein,  dashed  a  guard,  and  when 
abreast  of  us,  drew  up  short  out  of  a  full  run, 
after  the  manner  of  Arab  horsemen. 

"B'salaam,"  to  Muraiche,  and  a  nod  of  the 
head  to  me,  which  was  slightly  reciprocated;  yes, 
very  slightly,  for  before  me  was  the  one  man  out 
of  all  the  Arabs  I  had  ever  seen  that  I  would 
have  chosen  last  for  a  companion  that  night. 
There,  in  the  glow  of  the  late  afternoon  sun- 
light, the  stock  of  his  short  carbine  resting  on 
his  saddle,  and  the  sweat  making  bright  the  high 
lights  on  his  evil  brassy-bronze  face,  sat  the 
worst  cutthroat  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  look 
upon — Muraiche's  friend,  he  of  the  market-place. 

[246] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

During  a  short  conversation  with  Muraiche, 
the  guard's  peculiar  eyes  scanned  me  from  the 
rowels  of  my  spurs  to  the  top  of  my  sun  helmet. 
Evidently  the  main  objects  of  his  searching 
glance  were  in  my  holsters,  covered  by  my 
jacket;  meantime,  however,  I  lost  no  detail  of  his 
weapon,  a  hammerless  magazine  rifle  of  modern 
make.  Then  he  addressed  me  in  Arabic,  but 
not  speaking  the  language,  I  turned  to  Muraiche. 

"He  tells  us  to  start,"  the  latter  replied. 

This  sudden  assumption  of  leadership  came 
most  unexpectedly,  his  seeming  intention  being 
to  bring  up  the  rear.  Now  Arabs,  though  igno- 
rant, are  daring;  but  like  all  Orientals,  fully  re- 
spect only  one  thing,  and  that  is  a  just  and  strong 
hand,  which  they  must  feel  in  order  to  appreci- 
ate.   Consequently  my  course  was  plain. 

"Tell  the  guard  to  head  the  caravan  and  that 
if  he  goes  with  me,  he  goes  as  one  of  my  men." 
As  we  got  under  way  the  guard  rode  slowly 
ahead,  meanwhile  taking  sidelong  glances  at 
me  out  of  the  corners  of  his  villainous  gray- 
green  eyes,  filled  with  all  the  hatred  of  the  Mos- 
lem for  the  Christian.  I  realized  that  never  in 
my  life  had  the  assets  and  liabilities  of  my  status 
quo  received  such  careful  auditing. 

[247] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

When  the  great  red  lantern  of  the  sun  disk 
had  sunk  beneath  the  earth  Hne,  from  without 
the  deep,  mysterious  valleys  crept  the  blue- violet 
mist  films  of  twilight  shadows,  absorbing  and 
leavening  into  their  darker  tones  the  brighter 
afterglow,  against  which  moved  the  dark  shapes 
of  horses  and  men.  Suddenly  they  bunched 
themselves  and  the  guard  dismounted,  then 
Mohammed  and  Ali  went  on  with  the  pack 
donkey. 

"The  guard's  saddle-girth  is  broken,"  Mu- 
raiche  informed  me.  "But  we  will  fix  it  and  you 
can  ride  on  very  slowly." 

"I  will  wait,"  was  my  reply.  "  But  you  ride  on, 
Muraiche."  The  girth  was  soon  "fixed,"  which 
consisted  in  a  vain  effort  to  cinch  it  up  another 
hole. 

Steeper  and  more  rugged  grew  the  trail,  and 
we  entered  the  range  of  the  Gharian.  As  day- 
light dimmed,  an  uncomfortable  darkness  hung 
over  the  mountains  for  a  short  space;  then  the 
moon  glow  appeared  in  the  east,  and  soon  the 
moon  itself  lifted  its  pale,  distorted  shape  above 
the  horizon,  and  suffused  everything  with  its 
pale  blue-green  light,  so  cool  and  so  satisfying  to 
the  eye  and  mind  in  contrast  to  the  hot  sun  glare 

[248] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

that,  during  the  day,  reflected  through  to  the 
very  brain. 

But  the  dark  shadow  masses  of  boulders, 
parched  shrub  patches,  and  shaded  slopes — what 
uncanny  things  might  they  not  contain  ?  And 
those  gorges,  too,  which  in  the  day  reflected  heat 
like  an  oven  from  their  red,  hot  sides  ?  Now  they 
were  cold,  dank,  and  foreboding,  and  a  shudder 
passed  over  me.  Then  I  reasoned  with  myself. 
I  was  tired,  unduly  apprehensive;  the  conditions 
of  heat  and  long  days  in  the  saddle  had  over- 
taxed my  nerves.  I  fell  to  watching  the  agile 
bodies  of  my  Arabs  on  foot,  as,  tiring  of  the 
pace,  they  dropped  back  until  just  in  front  of 
me.  Mohammed  in  particular;  how  the  lights 
and  shadows  played  over  his  powerful,  animal- 
like form ;  how  subtly  his  shoulder  and  calf  mus- 
cles moved  under  his  sleek,  dark  skin;  how  they 
fascinated  me !  Willingly  through  the  long  jour- 
ney they  had  served  me,  save  at  Khoms.  I 
started,  my  dreaming  suddenly  ended,  and  almost 
involuntarily  my  spurs  caused  my  horse  to  start 
ahead.  The  two  men  had  so  imperceptibly  les- 
sened their  pace  that  they  now  had  dropped  just 
back  of  me,  one  on  either  side  of  my  horse,  and 
in    Mohammed's    hand    was    a    wicked-looking 

[249] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

knobbed  club,  which  usually  he  had  kept  stuck 
in  one  of  the  packs.  Each  carried  a  long  Arab 
knife,  so  Muraiche  was  ordered  to  tell  the  men 
to  keep  alongside  the  donkey. 

Down  the  other  side  of  the  moonlit  valley 
a  caravan  was  coming  toward  us  heading  for 
Khoms.  Taking  a  small  note-book  from  my 
pocket,  I  wrote:  *' Should  any  accident  occur  to 
me,  thoroughly  investigate  my  men,  including  the 
guard,"  and  signed  it.  Tearing  the  leaf  from  the 
book,  and  folding  it,  I  watched  the  great  lum- 
bering camels  approach  us,  and  dropped  a  little 
farther  behind,  intending  to  give  it  to  the  head 
man  of  the  caravan  for  him  to  bear  to  the  Muchia 
[governor]  at  Khoms.  Then  deciding  that, 
under  the  circumstances,  there  was  not  suflScient 
evidence  to  thus  prejudice  the  Turkish  author- 
ities against  my  men,  I  chewed  it  up  and  spat 
it  into  a  patch  of  sand  lilies. 

From  the  distance  came  the  faint  report  of 
a  gun.  Every  one  of  my  men  heard  it,  but 
no  comment  was  made,  and  we  pushed  deeper 
into  the  mountains.  On  our  left,  looking  toward 
the  moon,  objects  were  indistinct  in  the  half- 
tone and  shadow,  while  seen  from  there,  we  ap- 
peared in  the  moonlight.    Now  and  again  I  sensed 

[250] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

moving  shadows  from  that  direction,  but  it  was 
some  time  before  I  was  sure  that  they  were  living 
forms  following  us,  perhaps  hyenas,  jackals,  or 
some  sly  cheetah. 

As  we  made  sharp  turns  at  times  in  rounding 
the  mountains,  and  their  sides  stood  out  in  sil- 
houette against  the  sky,  I  bent  low  on  my  horse's 
neck  and  watched  intently.  At  one  of  these  turns 
where  the  sky  cut  deep  into  the  mountain  side, 
leaving  every  irregularity  in  relief  against  it,  I  no- 
ticed that  men  were  following  us.  First,  away  up 
on  the  side,  a  fezzed  head  and  the  barrel  of  a  long 
Arab  flint-lock  bobbed  against  the  sky  for  a  sec- 
ond, as,  dodging  catlike  amongst  the  rocks,  their 
owner  rounded  the  side.  Then  a  second  and  a 
third  appeared,  and  I  knew  w^e  were  followed  by 
thieves.  This  was  not  comforting,  but  if  we  were 
attacked,  the  guard's  rifle,  Muraiche's  old-fash- 
ioned five-shooter,  and  my  two  revolvers  would 
be  more  than  a  match  for  them  in  point  of  arma- 
ment. 

One  thing  puzzled  me,  however,  until  later. 
The  manner  of  these  Desert  thieves  being  invari- 
ably to  attack  from  the  rear,  I  could  not  account 
for  their  seeming  to  forge  ahead  of  us.  Watch- 
ing my  men,  I  saw  that  they,  too,  were  aware  of 

[251] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

the  thieves ;  and  Muraiche,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing me  closely  when  we  occasionally  rode  abreast, 
remarked:  "This  is  a  bad  country  here;  I  think 
robbers  are  following  us." 

"Yes,  Muraiche;  there  are  men  off  there.  I 
have  seen  three." 

"Allah  knows,  everything  is  in  the  hand  of 
Allah.  *  There  is  neither  might  nor  power  save  in 
Allah,  the  High,  the  Mighty.'  '  La,  Arfi,  you 
must  not  ride  behind;  you  had  better  ride  first." 

"Then  I  will  ride  last,  Muraiche,  for  mine  are 
the  best  weapons,  and  I  shoot  better  than  any 
of  you." 

After  a  sharp  turn  we  wound  along  a  valley 
side.  Just  below  us  the  dense  foliage  of  an  an- 
cient olive  grove  shut  out  every  gleam  of  light 
from  its  black  interior,  the  gnarled  old  branches 
reaching  out  as  though  to  drag  into  their  depths 
any  who  might  come  within  their  grasp,  and  the 
same  weird  sensations  of  awe  passed  over  me 
which  I  felt  as  a  boy  when  I  pored  over  D ore's 
illustrations  of  the  wandering  Dante  and  Virgil 
in  that  wonderful,  grewsome  nether  world. 

My  sensation  was  complete  when,  as  though 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for 

*  This  saying  is  used  by  Moslems  when  anything  alarming  occurs. 
[252] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

a  small  caravan  to  leave  the  trail,  dangerous  at  its 
best,  my  guard  led  and  the  men  proceeded  to 
follow  him  toward  the  dark  wood,  which  it  was 
manifestly  their  purpose  to  enter. 

"Muraiche!  Why  are  the  men  leaving  the 
trail  ?"  Perhaps  he  did  not  hear,  for  the  ground 
was  rough  and  the  stones  rattled  down  the  steep 
bank. 

**  Muraiche,"  I  called  loudly  and  peremptor- 
ily, riding  up  to  him,  "tell  the  men  to  halt," 
at  the  same  time  drawing  one  of  my  pistols  and 
resting  it  across  my  saddle.  Then  I  repeated  my 
question. 

"The  guard  says  it  is  shorter,"  Muraiche  re- 
plied, still  following  the  guard. 

"Then  let  the  guard  take  it  if  he  chooses. 
Order  the  men  on  to  the  trail,"  and  we  scram- 
bled our  horses  and  donkey  up  the  steep  incline. 

The  guard  turned  in  his  saddle  for  a  moment, 
made  a  low  reply  to  Muraiche,  then  descended 
and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  Skirting  the 
wood  for  half  a  mile,  we  passed  beyond  it. 
My  already  well-aroused  suspicions  of  intended 
treachery  on  the  part  of  my  men  were  confirmed 
when,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  guard  had  by 
far  the  fastest-walking  horse  of  our  outfit  and 

[253] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

had  taken  a  shorter  route,  there  was  no  sign  of 
him  until  we  had  passed  a  hundred  yards  beyond 
the  grove  and  halted. 

As  he  emerged  I  heard  the  faint  click  of  his  car- 
bine as  he  pulled  the  bolt  to  a  full  cock,  upon 
which,  half  turning  my  horse,  I  awaited  him;  as 
he  neared  us  I  saw  that  he  had  been  running  his 
horse,  which  was  breathing  hard  and  sweating. 
Then  the  truth  flashed  upon  me:  my  men  were 
in  league  with  the  thieves  who,  by  a  precon- 
certed arrangement,  had  gone  ahead  and  hidden 
in  the  grove,  there  to  set  upon  me  in  the  dark- 
ness, relying  upon  my  confidence  in  the  guard  to 
follow  his  lead.  Failing  in  their  end,  the  guard 
had  stopped  to  parley  with  them  and  then  made 
up  time.  Had  their  place  of  ambush  not  been 
so  evidently  dangerous  to  enter,  they  might  have 
been  successful.  Nor  would  it  have  been  the 
first  time  a  guard  and  outfit  had  returned  with- 
out the  *'Arfi,"  telling  a  good  story  of  how  they 
were  attacked  by  thieves  and  escaped,  while  he 
was  killed. 

Now  here  in  front  of  me  that  picturesque, 
venomous-looking  devil  sat,  his  rifle  full-cocked 
across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  my  other  men 
at  a  little  distance  to  my  right,  and  I  a  good  mark 

[254] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

with  my  white  sun  helmet — but  my  revolver 
resting  on  my  saddle  covered  the  guard. 

"Muraiche,  tell  the  guard  to  uncock  his  rifle. 
It  might  go  off  by  accident."  With  a  sullen 
look  the  guard  obeyed. 

"Now  tell  him  to  ride  first  to  protect  the  goods. 
Let  the  men  with  the  pack  donkey  follow,  then 
you  behind  them.  I'll  ride  last.  If  any  thieves 
approach  within  gunshot,  warn  them  away  at 
once,  or  I  shall  fire.    You  understand.^" 

"Yes,  Arfi,"  and  we  strung  out  in  single  file. 
My  purpose  was  to  place  the  guard  who  pos- 
sessed the  most  effective  weapon  where  it  was 
practically  of  no  use  against  me;  for  this  gave 
me  a  screen  of  the  men  and  animals.  The  dan- 
ger from  Mohammed  and  Ali  depended  entirely 
upon  their  ability  to  close  in  on  me,  so  while  in 
that  position  there  was  nothing  to  fear  from  them. 
As  for  Muraiche,  he  was  under  my  direct  sur- 
veillance, with  the  advantage  all  my  way,  as  I 
rode  with  drawn  weapon. 

But  I  knew  the  Arab  well  enough  to  know 
that  so  long  as  he  is  not  excited  or  his  fanaticism 
aroused  he  will  not  risk  his  own  skin  while  strat- 
egy will  serve  his  ends;  and  also  knew  that  I 
had  no  one  to  depend  upon  but  myself,  and  that 

[Q55] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

my  safety  lay  in  maintaining,  as  far  as  possible, 
a  normal  condition  of  things.  So  I  watched; 
watched  my  men  in  front  and  watched  to  the 
side  and  behind  for  signs  of  the  thieves,  of  whom 
I  caught  gHmpses  now  and  again.  My  Arabs' 
conjunction  with  these  men  thwarted,  it  was  but 
natural  that  they  should  communicate  with  each 
other  to  further  their  plans,  and  in  various  ways 
they  sought  to  do  this.  While  caravan  men,  when 
marching  through  a  safe  district  and  many  strong, 
often  chant  to  ease  their  dreary  march  or  to 
pacify  the  camels,  in  our  circumstances  the  less 
attention  we  could  draw  to  ourselves  the  better. 
So  when  Mohammed  started  to  chant  in  a  loud 
voice  by  way  of  giving  information,  he  was 
ordered  to  be  quiet. 

Again,  as  we  rounded  a  sharp  bend,  Ali  made 
a  break  for  the  brush,  but  he  started  a  second 
too  soon.  I  saw  him  and  called  his  name  sharply; 
he  halted  and  returned  to  the  caravan. 

When  we  passed  within  gunshot  of  objects 
which  might  conceal  a  foe  I  rode  abreast  of 
Muraiche,  using  him  to  screen  myself,  knowing 
well  that  they  would  attack  only  from  the  side 
which,  from  their  position,  placed  us  in  the  full 
moonlight.     And  in  the  narrow  ravines,  though 

[256] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

he  growled,  I  often  crowded  him  close,  affording 
little  or  no  opportunity  to  the  Arabs  to  single  me 
out  for  a  shot  without  endangering  Muraiche. 
So  we  travelled  until  a  thong  of  one  of  Moham- 
med's sandals  broke  on  the  rocky  ground,  and 
he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  drop  behind  a  little  and 
fix  it.  Since  we  were  entering  a  wide  open  stretch 
below  a  long  slope  of  hill,  I  acceded;  but  as  he 
fell  behind  some  distance,  I  called  to  him  to 
come  on,  and,  when  he  approached  us,  turned 
my  attention  to  the  men  ahead,  feeling  a  sense 
of  relief  that  we  were  now  in  more  open  country. 
The  moon  was  slightly  behind  us,  high  in  the 
heavens  now,  and  cast  our  shadows  diagonally  to 
the  right  and  ahead  of  us.  I  watched  the  shad- 
ows of  my  horse  and  myself  squirm  and  undulate 
as  they  travelled  over  the  ground.  As  I  relaxed 
from  the  tension  under  which  I  had  been  for 
a  moment  gazing  unthinkingly  ahead,  the  move- 
ment of  another  shadow  caught  my  eye — that  of 
an  upward-moving  arm  and  knobbed  club. 
There  was  no  time  to  look  first.  Instinctively 
with  my  right  hand  I  thrust  my  revolver  under 
my  rein  arm  and  turned  my  head  sharply  to  find, 
what  I  had  expected,  that  my  weapon  was  point- 
ing full  at  the  breast  of  the  big  fellow  Moham- 

[257] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

med,  who,  stealing  up  quietly  behind  me  with 
sandals  removed,  had  intended  to  strike. 

*'Bu-r-r-ro!"  [go  on]  I  said.  Lowering  his 
club  without  a  sign  of  embarrassment,  he  took 
his  place  in  line,  the  others  apparently  having 
been  oblivious  to  the  whole  affair. 

After  he  left  me,  and  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  had  passed,  cold  chills  chased  one  an- 
other up  and  down  my  spine.  From  then  on  there 
were  no  sign  of  thieves.  For  four  hours  I  had 
ridden  with  my  finger  on  the  trigger  of  my  pistol 
covering  my  men.  For  four  hours  I  had  sensa- 
tions which  I  do  not  care  to  experience  again. 

About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  high  up  on 
the  hilltop  we  sighted  the  white  walls  of  Kussa- 
bat,  and  after  some  hard  climbing  we  came  into 
full  view  of  the  silver  city,  glistening  in  a  bath 
of  silver  as  Khoms  had  shone  in  a  flood  of  gold. 

A  few  words  with  the  town  guard,  and  the  great 
doors  of  its  main  gate,  the  Bab-el-Kussabat, 
creaked  and  groaned  as  they  swung  open.  We 
entered  the  city  and  clattered  up  the  steep,  nar- 
row streets,  where,  from  the  low  housetops  on 
either  side,  sleeping  forms,  muffled  in  baracans, 
awoke  and  peered  over  at  us,  and  big  white  wolf- 
hounds craning  their  necks  set  pandemonium 

[258] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

loose  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other,  as 
they  snarled  and  yelped  in  our  very  faces. 

Soon  we  were  in  a  small  fonduk  with  doors 
heavily  bolted.  The  other  occupants  were  a 
selected  stock  of  camels,  goats,  sheep,  and  fowls 
taken  from  the  Arabs  by  the  Turks  in  lieu  of 
taxes ;  in  fact,  the  fonduk  had  been  converted 
into  a  sort  of  pound.  On  the  roof  were  a  dozen 
or  so  of  Arabs  and  Blacks  asleep,  and  I  preferred 
their  company  in  the  moonlight  to  that  of  my 
four  men  under  the  dark  archways.  To  prevent 
scheming,  I  took  with  me  Muraiche,  the  cause 
of  all  the  trouble.  Some  of  these  Blacks  and 
Arabs  raised  up  out  of  their  sleep  to  see,  prob- 
ably for  the  first  time,  an  apparition  in  khaki  and 
a  white  helmet.  Then  we  lay  down  and,  thanks 
to  the  previous  night's  rest,  I  managed  to  keep 
awake  most  of  the  night.  When  Muraiche 
rolled  over  in  his  sleep,  or  a  neighboring  Black 
muttered  in  his  savage  dreams,  I  would  start 
from  my  dozing. 

True,  I  gave  my  men  no  baksheesh  at  the  jour- 
ney's end.  I  might  have  had  them  thrown  into 
the  foul  Turkish  prison  of  the  Castle;  but,  after 
all,  it  was  the  life  of  these  men  of  the  Desert — 
they  had  only  tried  their  little  game  and  failed. 

[259] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

And  the  stakes  ?  My  revolvers  and  ammuni- 
tion, the  leather  of  my  saddle  and  riding  leggins, 
and  perhaps  a  gold  filling  in  my  teeth.  They 
knew  I  had  no  money,  for  in  the  presence  of 
Muraiche  I  had  deposited  it  at  Tripoli,  and  Mu- 
raiche  himself  carried  only  the  necessary  funds 
for  the  journey.  But  modern  weapons  are  a  pro- 
hibited import,  save  for  the  Turkish  army,  and 
are  worth  their  weight  in  silver  to  the  Arabs. 

Why  such  a  risk  for  such  small  stakes  ?  Well, 
why  will  the  Desert  thief  risk  his  life  for  a  bara- 
can,  or  an  Arab  scavenger  dig  up  the  corpse  of 
a  plague  victim  for  the  miserable  piece  of  sack- 
cloth that  girds  his  loins  ? 

The  next  morning  by  half-past  three  the  fon- 
duk  was  astir  and  we  breakfasted.  While  the 
horses  were  being  saddled  and  the  donkey 
loaded,  I  seconded  a  proposal  by  Muraiche  to 
look  about  Kussabat.  It  was  evident  that  both 
he  and  the  guard  who  had  accompanied  us  were 
disposed  to  inveigle  me  into  dark  and  out-of-the- 
way  streets  and  I  soon  retraced  my  footsteps  to 
the  fonduk,  paid  the  keeper  for  the  stabling 
of  my  animals,  and  left  Kussabat  through  its 
other  gate. 

Descending  to  a  plateau  we  soon  passed  the 
[260] 


A  NIGHT'S  RIDE  WITH  ARAB  BANDITS 

outskirts  of  some  extensive  olive  groves.     Here 

the  guard  left  us  and  we  entered  the  mountains 

again,  often  following  through  gorges  which  shut 

out  every  breath  of  air  and  where  the  heat  was 

stifling.     Sometimes  we  camped  in  these  gorges 

at  night,  and  the  bark  of  the  jackal  or  the  idiotic 

laugh  of  a  hyena  would  echo  and  reverberate 

from  the  rocky  walls.    The  day  was  one  of  the 

hottest,  for  it  was  now  African  midsummer  and 

the  sun  beat  down  relentlessly  on  our  suffering 

horses.     Beside  me  on  the  dapple-gray  stallion 

rode  old  Muraiche.    His  hooked  nose  resembled 

more  than  ever  a  vulture's  beak,  and  his  crafty 

eyes  looked  out  from  a  bronzed  and  wrinkled 

physiognomy.       Ahead    Mohammed    and    Ali 

trudged  wearily,  ankle-deep  in  the  hot  sand  over 

a  sun-baked  plateau.    Noon  came  and  I  saw  to 

it  that  the  animals  were  at  once  unsaddled  and 

fed;   then  we   ate,   and   the   men   prepared   to 

stretch  out  for  their  hard-earned  siesta.     But 

this  was  not  to  be.    I  meant  that  by  the  end  of 

that  day's  journey  they  should  find  themselves 

more  ready  to  sleep  than  to  scheme. 

"Saddle  up!"  I  ordered.     My  only  concern 

was  the  horses,  and  they  had  already  had  an 

hour  since  eating.     However,  this  unusual  cur- 

[  261  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

tailing  of  the  mid-day  rest  was  resented  by  all 
three,  but  particularly  by  Mohammed  and  Ali. 

"They  say  they  will  not  go!"  repeated  Mu- 
raiche,  the  sly  old  fox  not  caring  to  openly  take 
the  stand  himself. 

"Then  let  them  stay  here  in  the  Desert  without 
water,  food,  or  guns;  we  will  take  the  pack 
donkey  with  us." 

The  double-faced  old  rascal  would  not  openly 
side  with  the  mutinous  pair,  and  the  result  was, 
they  sullenly  saddled  up.  We  did  a  day  and  a 
half's  journey  in  one,  but  they  slept  that  night; 
so  did  I. 


[262] 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

A    DESERT    EPISODE 

CROWNING  the  highest  crest  of  some  Sa- 
haran  sand-hills,  a  lonely  castle  glistened 
like  a  fire  opal  against  the  azure  of  a  Desert  sky. 
Over  its  whitewashed  Moorish  walls  and  ram- 
parts the  lowering  sun  splashed  in  orange  gold 
and  dyed  a  lurid  red  the  crescent  flag  of  the 
Turk,  which  hung  lazy  and  lank  from  its  hal- 
yards. From  the  castle  a  hundred  yards  away 
stretched  a  gentle  slope  of  sand  over  which  two 
figures  passed  back  and  forth,  their  manner  be- 
speaking the  tenseness  of  their  conversation. 

Such  was  the  picture  framed  by  the  circular 
rim  of  a  little  three-inch  mirror  [a  part  of  my 
shaving  kit]  into  which  I  was  looking. 

The  place  called  Jefara  was  a  lonely  spot. 
Besides  the  castle,  which  garrisoned  some  sixty 
Turks,  there  were  but  two  other  habitations. 
One  was  the  house  of  the  Bey,  the  Arab  governor 

[263] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

of  the  province,  from  which  high  walls  squared 
themselves  about  the  seclusion  of  his  seraglio  and 
gardens ;  the  other  a  small  building  at  the  corner 
of  the  wall  nearest  the  castle.  This  served  fre- 
quently as  a  lokanda  for  belated  wayfarers,  but 
primarily  as  a  rendezvous  where  the  garrison 
could  exchange  their  few  paras,  and  the  Arabs 
of  the  wadan  their  scant  earnings,  for  coffee 
brewed  in  little  brass  utensils  and  poured  into 
cups  of  British  make.  A  broad  stone  seat  lined 
the  walls  of  the  single  room  within,  and  outside 
one  flanked  the  entrance  on  either  hand. 

Muraiche  had,  upon  our  arrival,  made  ar- 
rangements with  the  Black  who  ran  the  place 
to  quarter  there  for  the  night,  and  to  provide 
green  fodder  from  the  neighboring  oasis  for  the 
animals. 

By  hard  travelling  the  following  sunset  should 
find  us  at  the  end  of  our  long,  tedious  journey, 
back  again  in  the  town  of  Tripoli.  This  near 
approach  to  civilization  made  me  realize  that, 
out  of  consideration  for  my  friends  in  Tripoli, 
certain  neglected  duties  must  at  last  be  met  face 
to  face,  and  so  the  last  glow  of  waning  sunlight 
found  me  outside  the  lokanda,  belathered,  razor 
in   hand,   peering  into   a   small   pocket  mirror 

[264] 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

balanced  uncertainly  against  a  bar  of  the  iron 
window  grating. 

Some  dozen  Arabs  and  Blacks  stood  about  or 
squatted  on  the  ground,  eying  me  with  native 
curiosity,  thinking  likely  enough  that  only  a  fool 
Christian  would  shave  his  beard.  One  in  par- 
ticular, a  nephew  of  the  Bey,  engaged  me  in  con- 
versation on  the  subject.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
scarlet  burnoose  of  beautiful  texture  and  wore 
tucked  back  of  his  ear,  after  the  manner  of  the 
country,  a  bouquet  of  small  blossoms. 

Again  the  two  figures  appeared  in  the  mirror, 
passed  across  the  crack  in  its  surface,  and  moved 
beyond  the  rim.  One,  dressed  after  the  manner 
of  p  high-class  Arab,  was  the  Bey.  But  my  in- 
terest lay  in  the  taller  of  the  two  men,  a  Turkish 
officer  in  command  of  the  garrison.  For  it  was 
he  who  had  joined  me  over  my  coffee  upon  my 
arrival,  and  had  sought  in  French  adroitly  to 
cross-examine  me  under  the  guise  of  a  persua- 
sive affability. 

I  told  him  I  was  an  American,  that  we  had 
come  from  over  the  range  of  the  Gharian  and 
were  headed  for  Tripoli. 

"But  your  clothes.^"  he  queried,  as  he  eyed 
suspiciously  my  suit  of  khaki. 

[265] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

*'I  bought  them  in  Malta.  We  lay  over  a 
day  and  I  was  pressed  for  time,  so  an  accommo- 
dating tailor  on  the  Strade  Reale  refitted  these 
from  a  previous  order.  You  see,"  I  continued 
jokingly,  "my  jacket  was  at  first  intended  for 
a  captain  in  the  British  service,  and  by  rights 
these  trousers  should  now  be  adorning  the  legs 
of  an  army  surgeon."  But  no  trace  of  a  smile 
lit  up  his  bronzed  face. 

"Your  firman,"  he  demanded.    "I  will  see  it." 

"The  courtesy  of  your  Turkish  Pasha  at  Trip- 
oli has  rendered  one  unnecessary." 

"No  firman,"  he  ejaculated;  "you  are  travel- 
ling through  the  territory  of  the  Sultan  sans  fir- 
man,'' and  abruptly  left  me. 

I  was  not  again  aware  of  his  presence  until 
the  silver  disk  reflected  the  two  figures  as  they 
strode  back  and  forth  behind  me.  "Gharian 
.  .  .  firman  .  .  .  Tripoli  ..."  drifted  to  my 
ears,  and  suspicious  glances  in  my  direction 
left  no  doubt  that  I  was  the  subject  of  their 
discussion. 

Dusk  was  now  settling  over  the  Desert.  Mu- 
raiche  poured  from  an  earthen  jar  a  thin  stream 
of  water  into  my  hands,  for  I  washed  after  the 
manner  of  the  Arabs;  then,  leaving  me,  he  en- 

[2Q6] 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

tered  the  lokanda,  supposedly  to  spread  my  rug 
and  prepare  things  for  the  night. 

My  surprise  and  indignation  were  not  to  be 
concealed  when  on  entering  I  found  him  busily 
gathering  together  the  outfit.  "The  Sahib 
[oflScer]  he  order  me  take  the  things  to  the 
castle,"  grunted  Muraiche. 

"Well,  the  Arfi  [master]  orders  that  they  be 
left  here."  Having  seen  my  orders  carried  out, 
I  repaired  to  one  of  the  stone  seats  outside,  where 
the  officer  soon  joined  me. 

"You  will  be  my  guest  at  the  castle  to-night," 
he  proffered. 

"Thanks,  but  I  have  already  made  arrange- 
ments to  stay  here." 

"La,  not  here  among  these  Blacks  and  men  of 
the  wadan;  it  is  dangerous." 

"I  am  sure  it  will  be  safe  enough  under  the 
shadow  of  your  castle,  and  this  seems  the  most 
comfortable  place  I  have  quartered  in  for  three 
days." 

Back  in  his  deep,  sinister  eyes  I  caught  a  look. 

I  had  no  desire  to  enter  the  castle  and  to  stake 

my  safety  or  convenience  on  the  whims  of  an 

erratic   Turk.      Besides,    mere    detention    in    a 

Turkish  fortress  would  have  placed  me  more  or 

[267] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

less  at  the  mercies  of  old  six-fingered  Mohtar, 
the  Tripoline  horse  dealer,  with  whom  the 
contract  for  my  animals  expired  the  following 
day. 

An  hour  later  a  Moorish  lantern  which  the 
Black  had  hung  over  the  lintel  of  his  doorway 
cast  its  uncertain  light  over  the  swarthy-visaged 
men  who  sat  about,  engaged  in  guttural  conver- 
sation or  quietly  smoking  their  long  kief  pipes. 
By  its  light  I  had  jotted  down  a  few  notes  of  the 
day's  journey,  and  liad  now  settled  comfortably 
back  and  watched  the  curling  smoke  wreaths, 
like  the  fumes  of  so  many  Aladdin's  lamps,  twist 
and  curl  straight  up  toward  the  darkness  and 
the  stars. 

But  in  place  of  the  evil  "jinnee"  again  ap- 
peared the  assiduous  Turk. 

"Come,"  said  he,  standing  in  front  of  me, 
"and  we  will  drink  mastica  together  at  my  quar- 
ters. 

"You  decline.?  Then  take  a  promenade  and 
I  will  show  you  the  castle." 

Under  the  circumstances  I  was  not  keen  to 
visit  this  particular  Turkish  stronghold  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  so  replied  that  I  was  tired  from 
the  day's  journey  and  was  just  about  to  turn  in. 

[268] 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

"But  just  a  petite  promenade — dix  minutes," 
he  urged. 

"Monsieur,  I  wish  to  be  left  alone." 

Within  the  flicker  of  the  lamp's  rays  his  man- 
ner changed,  a  red  anger  flushed  over  his  face, 
his  sinewy  hand  shot  out  and  seized  me  strongly 
by  my  wrist.  "I  order  you  to  the  castle,"  he 
hissed  in  my  face.  Some  of  the  Arabs  sprang 
up.  My  free  hand  had  dropped  to  my  holster, 
while  with  a  twist  I  freed  my  arm. 

"Monsieur,"  I  said,  springing  to  my  feet,  "if 
this  is  an  invitation  to  spend  the  night  as  your 
guest  at  the  castle  I  thank  you,  but  must  decline; 
but  if  you  have  orders  from  Redjed  Pasha  to  that 
effect,  show  them  to  me  and  I  will  gladly  com- 

ply-" 

"Bah,"  he  jeered,  "vous  faites  mal.  When 
do  you  leave — in  the  morning  .^" 

"Perhaps  at  three,  perhaps  at  four." 

"I  go  with  you,"  he  added  and  disappeared 
from  the  arena  of  lamplight  in  the  direction  of 
the  castle. 

The  Black  mounted  the  stone  ledge,  unhooked 

the  lantern,  and  disappeared  inside  the  lokanda. 

He  at  once  closed  the  heavy  window  shutters 

inside  the  bars,  and  when  the  last  one  had  en- 

[269] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

tered  threw  over  the  heavy  bolts  of  the  door. 
The  natives,  casting  off  their  baracans,  spread 
them  along  the  stone  ledge,  upon  which  they  im- 
mediately stretched  themselves  for  the  night. 
Kicking  off  my  riding  leggins  I  lay  down  on  my 
rug. 

Piff !  The  Black  groped  his  way  to  his  place, 
and  soon  only  the  heavy  animal-like  breathing 
of  the  sleepers  broke  the  stillness  of  the  darkness. 

For  some  time  I  slept  soundly,  but  finally  the 
heated  closeness  of  the  place,  which  was  among 
the  least  of  its  detractions,  became  unendurable, 
so,  picking  up  my  blanket,  I  quietly  unfastened 
the  door  and  slipped  out.  "Halt!"  rang  out  the 
challenge  of  a  guard  from  the  nearest  corner  of 
the  castle.  Lying  down  on  one  of  the  stone  seats 
at  the  side  of  the  door,  I  pulled  my  blanket  over 
me,  vaguely  heard  some  one  shp  the  bolt  of  the 
door  again,  saw  a  dusky  baracaned  figure  emerge 
around  the  corner  of  the  lokanda  and  occupy 
the  other  seat,  then  fell  asleep  in  the  refreshing 
cool  of  the  Desert  night. 

It  must  have  been  two  o'clock  in  the  morning 
that  I  was  shaken  awake  by  a  Turkish  soldier. 
The  oflBcer,  by  having  placed  my  three  men  and 

[270] 


"His 


liaiul  shot  out  and  seized  me  strongly  by  the  wrist " 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

myself  all  night  under  the  surveillance  of  a 
guard,  had  seen  fit  to  forestall  any  premature 
departure,  and  now  came  in  person,  greeting  me 
with  the  remark,  "It  is  time  to  start." 

I  was  in  none  too  gracious  a  mood,  having 
been  so  unceremoniously  aroused.  Further 
sleep,  however,  was  out  of  the  question,  and 
other  travellers  were  already  bestirring  them- 
selves. 

"I  am  travelling  for  my  own  pleasure  and  in 
my  own  time,"  I  said  curtly. 

The  next  half-hour  was  spent  over  our  break- 
fast while  he  stood  insolently  by.  Then  Mo- 
hammed and  Ali  secured  the  kit  on  the  pack 
donkey,  Muraiche  and  I  swung  into  our  saddles, 
and  set  out  accompanied  by  the  oflScer. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning  as  we  rode  over 
hillock  after  hillock  of  moonlit  sand:  one  of 
those  Desert  moods  which  leave  their  indelible 
impress  upon  the  traveller  who  seeks  her  arid 
wastes.  And  I  rode  slowly  that  I  might  drink  in 
all  that  these  great  solitudes  had  to  offer,  too 
slowly  for  my  self-imposed  escort.  His  restive 
Arab  mount  was  a  superb  animal,  and  the  oflScer 
tired,  as  I  meant  he  should,  of  my  slow  pace. 
Long  before  the  pinks  and  greens  of  the  sand 

[271] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

appeared  in  the  early  dawn  he  had  given  rein  to 
his  horse,  ordering  us  to  follow  to  the  next  army 
post,  a  half  day's  journey  ahead.  The  order, 
however,  was  unnecessary,  for  only  Bedawi  and 
Desert  thieves  dare  leave  the  main  caravan 
trails. 

The  sun  was  scorching  down  on  the  Desert 
with  a  wilting  heat  when  we  slowly  drew  up  at 
the  outpost,  typical  of  those  which  here  and  there 
are  scattered  along  some  of  the  main  trade  routes 
to  protect  caravans  and  prevent  smuggling. 

There  was  no  need  of  dismounting,  for  our 
companion  of  the  early  morning  came  toward  us, 
followed  by  two  Turkish  infantrymen,  each  of 
whom  carried  a  loaded  magazine  rifle  resem- 
bling closely  the  old  Lee  of  our  navy,  while  belts 
filled  with  ammunition  sagged  heavily  about 
their  waists. 

*' These  two  soldiers,"  said  he,  "will  escort 
you  to  Tripoli.  Adieu,  Monsieur,"  and  a  ma- 
licious smile  lurked  about  the  corners  of  his 
pointed  mustache. 

He  addressed  a  few  words  in  Turkish  to  the 
soldiers,  handed  the  younger  one  a  heavily 
sealed  document  which  he  tucked  in  his  belt, 
the  two  men  saluted,  and  we  set  out. 

[272] 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

"What  did  he  say  to  the  men,  Muraiche?" 
I  inquired  shortly. 

"He  give  orders  they  not  lose  you,  keep  their 
eyes  on  you  always,  and  when  we  see  Tripoli 
they  go  quick  to  the  Bashaw  with  the  paper." 

The  news  was  not  welcome.  I  never  had 
aspired  to  being  personally  conducted;  besides, 
should  the  letter  precede  me  it  would  be  prejudi- 
cial to  my  future  interests  in  Tripoli.  My  course 
was  plain.  I  must  anticipate  its  delivery  by  see- 
ing the  Pasha  first. 

My  escort  wore  high  red  Turkish  fezes  and 
brown  uniforms  whose  patched  and  dilapidated 
condition  was  characteristic  of  the  Ottoman  sol- 
dier of  the  Tripolitan  frontier.  The  elder  was 
a  veteran  upon  whose  sensibilities  the  untutored 
tactics  of  the  younger  seemed  to  rasp  like  the 
chafing  of  a  bow  across  a  Sudanese  gimbreh. 
At  first  they  marched  with  unslung  guns  and 
viewed  my  every  movement  with  suspicion. 
Perhaps  they  were  afraid  that  I  would  steal  the 
Desert,  as  only  mile  upon  mile  of  limitless  sand 
lay  about  us.  I  mitigated  this  fear,  however,  by 
being  content  to  carry  away  only  a  bottle  full  of 
it;  but  I  am  sure  that  the  suspicions  of  these  un- 
sophisticated Ottomans  were  never  fully  allayed 

[273] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

regarding  my  use  of  the  camera,  despite  the  fact 
that  I  eventually  persuaded  them  to  line  up  with 
my  own  men  before  it.  On  this  occasion  the 
veteran  proved  himself  every  inch  a  soldier. 

As  time  wore  on  they  slung  their  guns  across 
their  backs,  unslinging  them  occasionally  as  I 
halted  to  use  my  camera.  When  I  changed  the 
films  they  watched,  catlike,  every  movement, 
I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  discard  and 
surreptitiously  bury  in  the  sand  with  my  foot  the 
slip  of  paper  containing  the  developing  formula. 
Then  the  veteran  would  as  surreptitiously  slide 
up  behind  me,  dig  it  out  again  with  his  foot,  and 
stow  it  away  in  his  pocket.  In  such  a  manner 
he  secretly  stored  away  in  the  recesses  of  his 
clothes  some  half-dozen  of  these  slips,  later  to  be 
produced  as  documentary  evidence  against  me. 
I  still  wonder  what  sort  of  work  was  made  of 
them  when  they  came  to  translate  those  chemical 
formulae  into  Turkish. 

Hour  by  hour  passed  slowly.  Again  I  made 
no  stop,  as  is  customary  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  the  Turks  with  their  heavy  shoes  and 
weighty  accoutrements  began  to  show  signs  of 
fatigue. 

The  veteran,  however,  was  still  game,  despite 
[  274  ] 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

the  lagging  of  the  recruit,  whom  he  naggingly 
admonished  with  all  his  surplus  energy. 

But  at  last  the  pace  proved  too  much  for  even 
the  veteran,  who  growled  to  Muraiche. 

"He  say  to  stop,  go  slow,  Arfi,"  interpreted 
Muraiche.    My  plans  were  working  well. 

Mohammed  and  Ali  on  foot  beside  the  pack 
donkey  set  the  pace  in  front.  I  well  knew  that 
these  half-naked,  barefooted  men  of  the  Desert 
could  walk  the  Turks  to  a  standstill.  So,  turning 
to  Muraiche,  I  said:  "Tell  him  my  men  have 
marched  many  camels'  journeys  for  days  past. 
Ask  him  if  an  Arab  can  outwalk  a  Turk.^" 
There  is  no. love  lost  between  the  natives  and 
their  Turkish  conquerors,  and  I  knew  that  the 
question  would  be  put  with  a  relish. 

We  stopped  a  space  at  a  Desert  well.  I  now 
sent  the  men  and  donkey  on  ahead,  and  let  the 
Turks  take  their  fill  of  water  and  rest,  while  I 
studied  the  route  carefully  from  a  French  officer's 
map  which  had  been  loaned  me.  Three  kilo- 
metres away  there  was  a  double  turn  in  the  trail 
as  it  descended  through  a  rocky  sand-filled 
ravine. 

If  anything  was  to  be  done,  it  must  be  done 
soon  and  at  that  place.    My  men  with  the  outfit 

[275] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

had  long  since  disappeared  from  view  among  the 
sand-hills.  We  at  first  rode  slowly  to  give  them 
a  good  start,  at  times  gradually  increasing  or 
decreasing  our  lead.  We  were  approaching  the 
turn,  and  had  almost  imperceptibly  opened  up  a 
hundred  yards  of  daylight  between  us. 

"Halt!"  echoed  over  the  sand  as  a  hillock  shut 
us  from  their  view.  *'Ar-r-rah!"  yelled  Mu- 
raiche  as  he  dug  the  corners  of  his  steel  Arabian 
stirrups  into  his  horse's  side.  We  gave  the  ani- 
mals full  rein,  swerved  around  the  second  turn, 
and  dashed  down  the  ravine. 

And  it  was  here  that  the  hardest  riding  must 
be  done.  A  portion  of  the  gully  was  exposed  to 
the  highest  part  of  the  trail.  And  I  was  not  over 
sanguine  that  the  Turks  might  not  fire  upon  us, 
either  by  reason  of  their  excitement  or  deliber- 
ately through  a  too  rigid  interpretation  of  their 
oflScer's  orders. 

This  stretch  was  cleared  none  too  soon,  for  as 
we  disappeared  behind  the  wall  of  the  ravine, 
the  red  fezes  of  the  Turks  silhouetted  over  a 
distant  sand-hill  against  the  sky. 

Not  until  we  reached  a  point  a  mile  away 
where  the  trail  shelved  on  to  a  coast  route  did  we 
slacken  speed.      Here,  deep  parallel  and  inter- 

[  276  ] 


o 


a 
be 


A  DESERT  EPISODE 

lacing  camel  paths  were  worn  into  the  hard- 
packed  surface  by  centuries  of  caravan  traffic. 
The  paths  followed  over  clayey  cliffs,  literally 
the  edge  of  the  great  Desert,  which  seemed  here 
to  pause  before  it  emptied  itself  into  the  sea. 

We  soon  caught  up  to  the  outfit.  Not  far 
ahead  of  us  three  mounted  zabtie,  a  sort  of  rural 
constabulary  who  patrol  the  routes  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  coast  towns,  were  drawn  up  across  the 
trail  awaiting  our  approach.  The  sergeant,  so 
Muraiche  informed  me,  was  a  nephew  of  Sidi 
Hassan,  the  rightful  successor  to  the  throne  of 
the  deposed  Arab  house  of  Karamali.  A  satis- 
factory reply  to  their  questions,  and  we  were 
permitted  to  continue  on  our  way. 

The  zabtie  would  soon  meet  the  two  hurrying 
soldiers,  who  might  enroll  them  to  apprehend  us 
or  to  carry  in  the  letter.  So,  as  we  passed  the 
salt  chotts  of  Malaha,  I  left  word  for  the  outfit  to 
follow,  and  we  set  out  at  a  steady  canter  along 
the  Etreig-el-Kheiber  [The  Big  Road]  toward  the 
five  miles  of  palm  groves  and  gardens  of  the  oasis 
of  Tripoli.  An  hour  before  sundown  the  horses 
and  outfit  were  turned  over  to  Mohtar,  as  per 
contract,  before  six  o'clock  that  night,  which 
hour  is  the  beginning  of  the  Mohammedan  day. 

[277] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

Sunset  found  me  over  coffee  in  a  cool  chamber 
with  his  Excellency,  Redjed  Pasha. 

As  I  passed  out  into  the  dusky  street  I  en- 
countered the  escort!  Handing  them  some 
baksheesh,  I  trudged  over  to  my  lokanda. 

It  was  but  an  episode  of  Desert  travelling  in 
a  land  where  the  Occidental  voyageur  is  not  en- 
couraged. But  in  spite  of  Mohammedan  antip- 
athy, it  was  the  single  annoyance  shown  me  by 
a  Turkish  oflacial.  The  officer,  I  afterward 
learned,  was  of  Arab  birth,  but  educated  and 
trained  in  Constantinople  for  the  Turkish  ser- 
vice, and  his  temerity  may,  perhaps,  be  ascribed 
to  the  enthusiasm  of  an  overzealous  proselyte. 

The  prismatic  rays  of  passing  wedding  lan- 
terns lit  up  my  room  and  drifted  like  northern 
lights  across  the  ceiling  from  the  street  below. 
But  I  was  oblivious  to  the  weird  night  sounds 
which  break  the  quiet  of  a  Desert  town. 


[278] 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

THE    DESERT 

IT  would  be  well-nigh  impossible  for  one  who 
had  heeded  the  call  of  those  vast  Desert  soli- 
tudes to  pass  back  through  The  Gateway  to  the 
Desert  without  a  special  tribute  to  the  insidious 
charm  of  that  great  land  of  sand  and  silence 
which  lies  behind  it.  South,  the  interminable 
African  main  drifts  on  to  the  Sudan;  west  to 
east  it  sweeps  the  whole  width  of  Africa.  Even 
at  the  Red  Sea  it  merely  pauses  for  a  moment  at 
the  brink,  then  dips  beneath  the  limpid  waters 
and  continues  across  Arabia,  Persia,  and  into 
northern  India.  For  a  thousand  miles  along  the 
western  half  of  North  Africa  this  belt  is  screened 
from  Europe  by  the  Atlas  Mountains,  whose 
lofty  peaks  cut  a  ragged  line  against  the  sapphire 
welkin  above  them.  At  their  base  the  Medi- 
terranean, under  the  yellow  light  of  the  southern 
sun,  breaks  unceasingly  against  the  dark  coast 
rocks  in  a  glistening  band  of  gold,  which  at  night, 

[279] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

like  a  scimitar,  flashes  in  phosphorescent  streams 
of  silver  fire. 

For  a  thousand  miles  along  the  eastern  half  of 
North  Africa  the  Desert  meets  the  coast,  and  its 
golden  sands  blend  green  with  the  sapphire  of 
the  middle  sea.  But  here  nature,  as  though 
timid  of  thus  baring  the  Desert  to  the  men  and 
winds  of  the  north,  has  shrunk  back  the  coast- 
line three  hundred  miles  from  the  main  high- 
ways of  water  travel,  and  lined  the  barren  shores 
with  hidden  reefs  and  dangerous  quicksands. 

The  Desert  eagle  soaring  far  above  the  tawny 
surface  of  the  Sahara  looks  down  on  great,  won- 
derfully shaped  sand  reaches;  here  merging 
softly  into  broad  expanses  of  Desert  grass,  or 
creased,  where  dry  river  beds  have  been  etched 
into  the  plains;  there  vignetting  among  the  foot- 
hills of  heat-soaked  mountain  ranges,  whose 
loftiest  peaks  are  crowned  with  turbans  of  snow. 

The  fertile  littoral  and  the  mountainous  region 
of  Barbary,  which  extends  as  far  back  as  the  high 
plateau  lands,  are  called  by  Arabs  the  Tell.  It 
is  a  remarkably  rich  grain-producing  country. 
Then  comes  the  territory  which  they  designate 
the  Sahara  [Sahara] — a  country  of  vast  table- 
lands, over  which  is  sprinkled  a  veritable  archi- 

[  280  ] 


THE  DESERT 

pelago  of  oases.  Here,  under  the  shadow  of 
their  date-palms,  the  inhabitants  grow  gardens 
and  graze  flocks  and  herds  on  the  open  pastur- 
ages. Due  to  the  imperfection  of  geographical 
knowledge,  the  name  Sahara  was  erroneously 
applied  by  Europeans  to  the  entire  region  of  the 
Great  Desert.  Beyond  these  table-lands  of  the 
Sahara  lies  what,  to  the  Arabs,  is  the  real  desert, 
called  Guehla,  or  South,  a  vague  term  applying 
not  only  to  the  arid  wastes  which  we  call  the 
Sahara,  but  also  to  its  hinterland,  the  Sudan. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  consider  the  Desert  one  great 
waste  of  hot  level  sand.  Sand  there  is  in  abun- 
dance and  heat,  too;  but  there  are  those  rocky 
areao,  high  mountains,  and  table-lands,  over 
which  in  the  north,  through  the  regions  of  Bar- 
bary,  sweep  the  cold,  penetrating  winds  of  the 
African  winter.  Snow  even  has  been  known  to 
fall  in  the  highlands;  but  after  the  rains  in  the 
spring  the  whole  country  seems  to  burst  forth 
in  a  wealth  of  flora. 

As  in  Tripoli,  the  native  races  who  make  up 
the  thirty  to  forty  million  people  scattered  over 
these  three  great  natural  divisions  of  northern 
Africa  may  be  classed  under  the  same  three 
heads — Berbers,  Arabs,  and  Blacks.     The  Ber- 

[281] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

bers  have  settled  throughout  the  mountains  and 
plateau  lands;  the  Arabs  mostly  in  the  towns 
and  deserts,  and  the  Blacks  generally  where 
fortune  favors  them  most.  Nearly  all  these  peo- 
ple profess  Mohammedanism,  and  intermarrying 
to  some  extent  has  gone  on  for  centuries. 

The  Berber  race  is  best  represented  in  Bar- 
bary  by  the  wild  Kabyles  of  the  Atlas,  and  in  the 
heart  of  the  Sahara  by  the  fierce  Tuaregs.  Moor 
and  Bedaween  best  typify  the  Arabs;  the  Moor 
is  a  town-dwelling  Arab,  the  Bedaween  a  no- 
mad. Of  the  Blacks  there  are  two  classes,  the 
bond  and  the  free. 

On  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  mountains,  among 
the  parched,  thorny  shrubs,  sparse  tufts  of  rank, 
yellowed  grass,  and  poisonous  milk  plants,  can  be 
traced  the  nocturnal  wanderings  of  the  hyena, 
by  the  huge  doglike  tracks  he  has  left;  there,  too, 
the  jackal  howls  as  the  moon  lifts  over  a  moun- 
tain crag ;  or  the  terrific  roar  of  the  lion  suddenly 
breaks  the  stillness  of  the  night,  as  though  to 
shake  the  very  mountains  from  their  foundations 
and  send  their  great  boulders  crushing  down  on 
some  sleeping  Arab  douar  [village]  which,  per- 
chance, lies  at  their  base,  like  a  great  glow- 
worm in  its  stilly  whiteness. 

[282] 


THE  DESERT 

In  the  sunshine,  low  down  among  the  patches 
of  halfa  and  grasses  of  the  plains,  the  swallows 
eternally  skim  and  the  wild  gazelle  feeds.  Here, 
too,  the  jerboa  nibbles  at  the  roots  and  grains, 
and  the  sand  grouse  and  crested  Desert  lark  hide 
away  their  nests  from  the  watchful  eyes  of  kites 
and  falcons  which  here  and  there  stain  high 
against  the  clear  vault  on  outstretched  pinions. 
Now  and  again  in  barren  stretches  the  lone  sand 
lily  nods  its  blossom  in  the  soft  wind,  and  little 
Desert  snails  hang  like  racemes  of  white  flower 
bells  to  the  under  side  of  the  tamarisk  bushes 
and  blades  of  rank  Desert  grass. 

The  daily  aspect  of  the  Sahara  is  the  reverse 
of  that  of  our  country,  for  in  the  Desert  the  land- 
scape is  generally  light  against  the  sky,  which  in 
color  so  nearly  complements  the  orange  sand  as  to 
intensify  greatly  the  contrast.  When  day  breaks 
on  the  Sahara,  the  sun  shoots  long  shafts  of 
roseate  light  through  the  interstices  of  the  palms ; 
their  dark  red  violet  shadows  wriggle  and  blend 
away  over  the  gray-pinks  and  greens  of  the  dew- 
wet  sands.  Soon  the  violet  mists  have  turned  to 
gold,  and  day  has  spread  its  brazen  mantle  on 
the  sun-scorched  Desert.  One  feels  the  strange 
weirdness,  the  uncanny  solitude,  the  oppressive 

[  283  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

heat  and  monotony  which  make  the  day's  work 
a  constant  fight  against  fatigue,  ennui,  and  some- 
times sun  madness.  Watch  the  sun  sink  and  the 
color  of  its  Hght  sift  through  space  as  through 
gems :  there,  where  the  blue  sky  lowers  to  the  hot 
sand,  it  might  have  filtered  through  some  green 
peridot  of  the  Levant.  Such  are  some  of  the 
aspects  of  the  Desert,  whose  charm  places  one 
under  a  spell  which  it  is  beyond  the  power  of 
words  to  make  real  to  the  imagination  of  one  who 
has  never  seen  it. 

It  is  little  wonder  that  the  ancients  saw  in  the 
Sahara,  dark  dotted  with  oases,  the  graphic 
simile  of  the  leopard's  skin.  The  call  of  those 
limitless  reaches  is  as  subtle  and  insidious  as 
must  be  the  snow  fields  of  the  Arctic.  Listening 
to  it,  one  is  beguiled  onward  against  the  gentle 
pressure  of  its  capricious  south-east  breezes, 
under  which  date-palms  nod  their  graceful  crests 
over  the  murmuring  oases;  and  to-night  as  I 
write  I  look  out  in  imagination  on  that  Leop- 
ard's Skin  from  under  the  broad  lip  of  my  sun 
helmet.  No  sound  but  the  soft  scuff  of  our 
horses  and  the  creaking  saddle  leathers  breaks 
the  stillness;  no  shadows  except  our  own  paint 
splashes  of  azure  upon  the  orange  sand.    Again 

[  284  ] 


*  THE  DESERT 

white-walled,  bastioned  Tripoli  lies  many  miles 
behind  me  on  the  edge  of  the  coast  hke  a  great 
silver  shell  in  a  stretch  of  golden  sand,  and  I  feel 
that  somehow  I  have  again  drawn  back  the  veil 
of  ages.  ' 

Oases  practically  determine  the  courses  of  the 
trade  routes  which  for  centuries  have  been  the 
great  arteries  of  the  Desert,  oft  red-painted  with 
the  life-blood  of  caravans.  The  size  of  an  oasis, 
like  that  of  a  caravan,  is  not  a  fixed  quantity, 
but  varies  from  a  few  date-palms  around  a  Des- 
ert spring  to  areas  over  which  thousands  of  these 
*  hermits,"  as  the  Arabs  call  the  palms,  raise 
their  delicate  shafts.  One  oasis  south  of  Algeria 
contains  over  280,000  trees,  and  the  oases  of 
Tuat,  south  of  Morocco,  cover  many  square 
miles  of  territory.  Oases  are  practically  all  in- 
habited; most  of  them  are  the  result  of  man's 
planting,  and  in  many  sandy  regions  a  constant 
warfare  must  be  waged  by  him  against  the  en- 
croaching sands — yes,  and  against  men — for  it  is 
said  that  the  most  fatal  disease  in  the  Desert  is 
the  sword. 

Outside  the  town  walls  and  in  many  oases 
markets  are  held  on  certain  days  of  the  week. 
On  market  days,  after    breaking    their    lonely 

[285] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

vigils  on  the  far-off  pasturages,  multitudes  of 
sombre-garbed  Orientals  troop  in  from  every 
path,  driving  their  flocks  and  herds.  Here  these 
human  streams  converge  toward  the  suks  to 
mingle  with  their  more  brilliantly  robed  breth- 
ren of  the  towns.  Inside  the  town  gates  they 
drift  along  the  narrow  streets,  into  which  the 
sunlight  sifts  through  a  rainbow  of  sand  dust. 
At  these  markets,  town  and  country  meet  to 
trade — Berber,  Arab,  Turk,  Jew,  Ethiopian,  and 
European  barter  their  products,  while  Black 
women,  their  heads  covered  with  woven  plates, 
haggle  and  banter  over  their  wares. 

Water  may  be  struck  in  almost  any  region  of 
the  Sahara  and  brought  to  the  surface  by  arte- 
sian wells,*  which  are  destined  to  be  important 
factors  in  its  development. 

The  presence  of  water  there,  is  perhaps,  not 
difficult  to  explain.  One  follows  a  river,  which 
gradually  lessens  as  the  distance  from  its  source 
increases  until  it  is  finally  lost — drunk  up  by  the 

'  Mr.  Charles  Robinson,  the  African  traveller,  writes  of  running 
across  an  artesian  well  in  the  Desert  south  of  Tunisia.  He  says: 
"  Pitched  our  tents  at  an  oasis  which  had  been  formed  by  an  artesian 
well  constructed  by  M.  de  Lesseps,  the  water  from  which  rises  25 
feet  in  the  air  and  is  made  to  irrigate  400  to  500  acres  of  land,  on 
which  are  growing  date-palms,  pomegranates,  tomatoes,  onions,  and 
cucumbers.  Previous  to  the  construction  of  this  well  the  whole  of 
the  oasis  was  nothing  but  barren  sand." 

[286] 


THE  DESERT 

sands.  After  disappearing,  it  follows  under- 
ground courses  and  with  other  streams  helps  to 
form  vast  subterranean  lakes.  Such  is  the  case 
with  many  rivers  which  flow  from  the  southern 
slopes  of  the  Atlas.  These,  in  all  probability, 
eventually  find  their  way  to  that  vast  depres- 
sion of  which  the  salt  wells  of  Taodeni  are  the 
centre. 

Water,  of  course,  is  an  important  feature  of  the 
caravan  trade.  Where  distances  between  oases 
are  great,  Desert  wells  are  sunk  at  intervals  along 
the  trails,  and  in  Tripolitania  I  have  seen  wells 
faced  with  a  stone  curb.  It  is  incumbent  on  the 
last  traveller  who  quenches  his  thirst  in  the  Des- 
ert to  cover  the  well,  and  failure  to  do  so  is  the 
greatest  breach  of  honor  and  custom.  However, 
careless  drivers  do  leave  wells  uncovered,  and  the 
pursued  will  drink  and  then  destroy  the  well,  for 
life  as  well  as  water  is  sweet.  The  next  arriving 
caravan  finds  the  well  filled  with  sand,  or  the 
water  fetid  with  the  carcass  of  some  dead  animal ; 
and,  in  consequence,  perchance  another  tragedy 
of  the  Desert  is  written  on  the  sands. 

In  some  parts  of  the  Desert,  particularly  in  the 
country  of  the  Tuaregs,  there  are  many  hidden 
wells  known  to  them  alone.    These  they  conceal 

[287] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

with  a  cover  of  wood,  brush,  or  skins,  upon  which 
they  again  spread  the  sand. 

The  concealment  of  wells  in  that  land  has  be- 
come an  art.  The  Tuaregs  place  secret  land- 
marks about  the  Desert,  and  it  is  said  they  will 
find  a  hidden  well  within  a  day  or  two's  journey 
from  any  point  in  the  Sahara.  Wells  play  an  im- 
portant part  in  Desert  warfare,  and  the  control  of 
a  well  has  more  than  once  been  the  determining 
factor  in  a  Desert  fray,  the  besiegers  being  forced 
to  retire  for  water.  To  wash  with  water  in  the 
Desert  would  be  wilful  waste  to  the  Arab,  who 
performs  his  ablutions  there  with  sand,  as  his 
law  prescribes.  Since,  in  all  lands,  riches  consist 
of  the  possession  of  that  which  is  the  greatest 
universal  need  and  desire,  it  is  not  strange  that, 
in  some  parts  of  those  arid  wastes,  a  man's 
wealth  is  reckoned  by  the  number  of  wells  that 
he  controls. 

Fatiguing  travel  and  little  sleep,  with  the  re- 
lentless sun  beating  down  from  above  and  the 
everlasting,  vibrating  heat  waves  wriggling  up 
from  beneath,  will,  in  the  end,  try  the  soul.  The 
very  watching  of  men  and  animals  as,  step  after 
step,  they  sink  ankle  deep  into  the  sand,  is  weary- 
ing.   Sometimes  it  is  over  naked  plains  contain- 

[288] 


THE  DESERT 

ing  nothing  upon  which  the  strained  and  roam- 
ing eye  can  rest;  then,  day  after  day,  over  rolHng 
dunes  of  sand,  unfolding,  ever  unfolding,  phan- 
tomlike, away  from  one.  Some  take  on  shapes 
weird  and  picturesque:  here,  like  fossilized 
waves  of  the  sea ;  there,  crossing  and  recrossing 
each  other  in  endless  monotony.  Even  its 
grandeur  oppresses,  and  one  feels  as  though  a 
heavy  curse  had  settled  over  this  land,  from 
which  marvellous  fables  have  arisen  from  the 
loneliness  of  its  inhabitants. 

Watch  a  light  zephyr  from  the  south-east  as 
it  playfully  picks  up*  and  twirls  the  whiffs  of 
sand  dust  swirling  about  legs  of  men  and  ani- 
mals and  stinging  against  their  faces.  Perhaps 
it  dies  down  as  quietly  as  it  came;  perhaps  the 
wind  increases  and  brings  the  terrific  suffocating 
sand  storm  in  its  wake.  Then  after  a  week,  per- 
haps, of  the  yellow,  suffocating  gloom,  the  sur- 
viving remnant  of  the  caravan  emerges,  per- 
chance to  struggle  on  over  a  different  country 
from  that  which  surrounded  it  when  the  storm 
shut  down  on  the  landscape.  From  the  level 
stretches  of  sand,  which  vary  from  a  few  feet  to 
three  hundred  in  depth,  this  wind  will  pile  up 
dunes   a   thousand    feet   high;     or,    from   those 

[289] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

standing,  it  may  twirl  and  twist  out  huge  pillars 
or  sand-devils — due,  say  the  Arabs,  to  the  caprice 
of  passing  demons. 

Passing  caravans  always  excite  curiosity.  A 
dark  mass  appears  on  the  horizon;  it  seems  to 
disintegrate  as  it  comes  nearer,  and  one  soon 
discerns  the  great,  lumbering  camels.  It  may 
be  a  big  trade  caravan,  taking  the  greater  part 
of  the  forenoon  to  pass,  during  which  the  cara- 
vaneers  and  your  men  exchange  news;  then  it 
passes,  its  tag  ends  flapping  in  the  wind,  for  the 
fluttering  rags  of  its  caravaneers  and  the  rents 
in  the  loads  are  the  homeward-bound  pennants 
of  the  north-bound  trans-Saharan  caravans.  Per- 
haps the  dark  spot  proves  to  be  a  caravan  of 
Bedawi,  who,  like  the  will-o'-the-wisps  that  they 
are,  sweep  by  with  all  their  barbaric  parapher- 
nalia. Some  of  the  women  are  hidden  from 
view  by  wide-spreading,  gaudily  striped  palan- 
quins. At  night  they  camp  in  a  sunken  spot 
where  grow  the  spiny  cacti  and  the  withered 
camel  thorn;  by  daybreak  on  the  morrow  they 
are  a  speck  on  the  horizon. 

The  Desert  as  an  obstacle  to  communication 
has,  in  many  cases,  been  greatly  exaggerated. 
However,  the  numerous  bones  which  strew  the 

[290] 


THE  DESERT 

trails  bear  ample  evidence  that  the  Desert,  like 
the  sea,  claims  its  toll.  Still,  it  is  a  practical  and 
much-used  highway  to  its  several  million  inhabi- 
tants. The  Black  shepherds  of  the  high  steppes 
of  the  Adrar  region,  north-west  of  the  Niger 
country,  cross  the  Igidi  Desert  every  year  with 
their  flocks,  which  they  sell  in  the  great  markets 
in  the  oases  of  Tuat.  In  like  manner,  herds  of 
cattle  are  driven  from  the  south  into  the  region 
of  the  Hoggar  Tuaregs,  and  might  easily  con- 
tinue north  to  Algeria  if  fodder  were  grown  for 
them  in  the  oases. 

Before  the  advent  of  the  draught  camel  into 
the  western  Sahara  the  ancients  tell  of  a  people 
called  the  Garamantes,  who  made  the  long 
trans-Saharan  voyages  with  burden-bearing  cat- 
tle; and  many  inscriptions,  rough  hewn  on  the 
Desert  rocks,  bear  witness  to  the  previous  exist- 
ence of  these  people. 

Already  the  droning  hum  of  the  telegraph  wire 
is  heard  in  French  Barbary  and  through  certain 
sections  of  the  southern  and  eastern  Sahara; 
and,  in  Tripoli,  even  the  unprogressive  Turk  has 
stretched  a  single  wire  six  hundred  miles  south, 
connecting  the  sun-baked  town  of  Murzuk  with 
the  outer  world.     France,  with  its  Desert  forts 

[  291  ] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

and  systematic  aggrandizement  of  the  sands,  will 
soon  be  the  owner  of  the  Sahara.  Perhaps  the 
day  is  not  far  distant  when  one  may  purchase 
a  railroad  ticket  from  Tangier  to  Timbuktu. 

The  central  part  of  the  Desert  does  not  seem 
to  have  any  great  intrinsic  value,  although  the 
high  steppes  between  the  Sahara  and  the  Sudan 
could  be  converted  into  pasturages  with  a  dis- 
tinctly economic  value.  Such  use  is  made  of  the 
plateau  lands  of  northern  Tripoli  and  southern 
Tunisia  and  Algeria.  Tunisia  has  but  a  million 
and  a  half  inhabitants;  under  the  Caesars  it  is 
said  to  have  supported  a  population  of  twenty 
millions  and  still  had  enough  cereals  to  stock 
Rome,  acquiring,  with  Algeria  and  Tripoli,  the 
proud  distinction  of  being  the  granary  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

Few  now  give  credence  to  the  theory  that  the 
sea  once  flowed  over  where  now  is  the  Desert, 
and  there  seems  to  be  little  doubt  but  that  in 
prehistoric  ages  the  Sahara  was  a  veritable 
Garden  of  Eden.  "Rivers  which  now  traverse  it 
in  their  underground  beds  originally  flowed  upon 
its  surface  and  probably  formed  huge  tropical 
streams,  for  unmistakable  traces  of  the  existence 
of  still  living  crocodiles  have  been  discovered 

[292] 


THE  DESERT 

within  recent  years  in  a  small  lake  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Sahara." 

There  also  seems  good  reason  to  believe  that, 
while  the  Desert  sands  encroach  northward,  there 
is  following  in  their  wake  the  fertile,  tropical 
vegetation  of  the  Sudan — that  the  Sudan  is  en- 
croaching on  the  Sahara.  Thus  empires  depart, 
races  dissolve,  and  religions  change;  but  the 
great  work  of  the  Almighty  on  the  eternal  hills 
and  trackless  sands  goes  on. 

Night  everywhere  transforms  the  commonplace 
into  the  realm  of  beautiful,  but  night  on  the 
Desert  bewitches  the  imagination  and  allows  all 
of  the  romance  and  vague  fancy  of  one's  nature 
to  nm  riot.  Go  out  after  the  dews  have  chilled 
the  air  and  stand  alone  on  the  moonlit  billows; 
hold  communion  with  those  mighty  impulses 
which  seem  to  issue  from  its  sands;  sound  the 
fathomless  depths  of  that  dark  blue  African 
sky,  resplendent  with  its  million  glittering  stars; 
let  your  eye  Vv^ander  on  and  on  over  the  undulating 
hillocks,  ever  rolling  away  to  the  horizon  of  the 
imagination,  until  the  mysterious  spirits  of  the 
Desert  are  rising  dark  and  ghostlike  out  of  the 
shades  of  the  dunes.  Then  find  your  way  back 
to    your    rug — spread,    perchance,    under    the 

[293] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

branches  of  some  gnarled  old  olive  tree — and  fall 
asleep,  to  wander  among  the  enchanted  cham- 
bers of  some  Ali  Baba,  through  the  mysterious 
mazes  of  a  thousand  and  one  nights. 

But  of  the  morrow  of  the  Tripolitans  ? 

Through  drought,  inertia,  and  unbearable 
taxation,  Tripoli's  agricultural  resources  barely 
keep  her  inhabitants  from  starvation.  Her  cara- 
van trade  is  leaking  out  to  the  south  by  way  of 
the  Niger,  and  what  little  intermittently  trickles 
northward  is  unstable  because  of  the  insecurity 
of  the  routes.  Thus  the  great  decrease  in  her 
leading  exports  reflects  unfavorably  on  the  gen- 
eral commercial  prosperity  of  Tripoli,  but  more 
saliently  emphasizes  the  need  of  developing  her 
agricultural  resources.  Turkey  seems  not  only 
indifferent  but  averse  to  improvements  of  any 
kind,  apparently  not  wishing  to  encourage  either 
native  or  foreign  interests,  thereby  attracting 
attention  to  the  country.  Yet  with  a  jealous  eye 
Turkey  guards  this  province — perhaps  that  she 
may  continue  to  squeeze  from  the  flat,  leathern 
money  pouches  of  the  Arabs  more  miserable  ver- 
ghi  and  tithes;  perhaps  that  she  may  maintain 
a  door  between  Constantinople  and  the  hinter- 

[294] 


THE  DESERT 

land  of  Tripoli,  through  which  to  secretly  re- 
plenish her  supply  of  slaves. 

Along  the  rough  trails  back  in  the  plateau 
lands  and  the  mountains  of  the  Jebel  Tarhuna 
and  the  Gharian,  I  have  occasionally  run  across 
great  broken-down  coflFer-dams.  Along  the 
coast  I  have  ridden  for  the  greater  part  of  a 
day  over  the  fine-crumbled  remains  of  Roman 
towns,  now  and  again  clattering  over  the  tessel- 
lated pavement  of  all  that  was  left  of  some  Ro- 
man villa  which  had  overlooked  the  blue  ex- 
panse of  the  Mediterranean.  The  dams  tell  of 
the  previous  conservation  of  vast  water  supplies 
which  once  irrigated  the  fertile  hills  and  pla- 
teaus upon  which  a  great  Roman  and  native 
population  depended.  Other  evidence  is  not 
wanting  which  tells  us  that  in  those  days  much 
of  the  land  was  thickly  wooded,  largely  culti- 
vated, and  populated. 

It  is  claimed  that  since  those  days  great  cli- 
matic changes  must  have  occurred  to  so  alter  the 
face  of  the  land  and  convert  it  to  its  present  arid, 
sun-dried  condition.  In  those  times  it  is  said 
that  the  rainfall  was  perennial — far  in  excess  of 
the  present,  and  apparently  sufficient  for  all 
purposes  of  agriculture;   so  much  so  that  some 

[295] 


THE  GATEWAY  TO  THE  SAHARA 

modern  travellers  have  sought  to  ascribe  the 
construction  of  these  dams  to  the  necessity  of 
providing  against  periodical  inundations. 

It  is  difficult,  however,  not  to  believe  that  the 
works  in  question  which  were  thrown  across 
wadis  at  different  levels  served  as  reservoirs  for 
purposes  of  irrigation,  as  is  shown  to-day  by  the 
existence  of  remains  of  similar  dams  in  eastern 
Palestine. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  it  will  be 
a  Christian  European  power  which  will  open  for 
the  Tripolitan  that  sesame  which  will  arouse 
him  from  his  inertia  and  usher  him  into  fields 
where  he  will  take  new  heart  and  courage;  and 
Tripoli  will  be  reclaimed  from  the  Desert,  not  so 
much  through  the  reconstruction  of  the  coffer- 
dam of  the  Roman  as  by  that  modern  agency, 
the  artesian  well. 

Virtuous  Europe  no  longer  steals  Africans 
from  Africa.  Her  civilization,  honesty,  and  hu- 
manitarianism  have  frowned  upon  that;  so  now 
she  reverses  the  order  of  things  and  steals  Africa 
from  the  Africans. 

A  little  over  twenty  years  ago,  just  as  Italy 
was  spreading  her  wings  over  Tunisia,  France 
alighted  on    the    quarry.      Chagrined    and    an- 

[296] 


THE  DESERT 

gered,  Italy  turned  her  attention  to  Tripolitania, 
a  garden  plot  at  her  very  back  door,  where  to- 
day, next  to  Turkey,  her  interests  and  influence 
unquestionably  predominate.  To  make  future 
occupation  secure,  however,  Italy  must  make 
some  tacit  arrangement  with  France  for  a  free 
hand,  and  prevail  upon  the  other  Powers  to  ad- 
mit her  interests  there;  perhaps  she  has.  It  is 
to  be  hoped,  however,  that  the  accession  of 
Mehemed  V.  to  the  Sultanate  of  Turkey  is  the 
beginning  of  a  new  and  better  order  of  things, 
for  both  Turkey  and  her  colonies. 

Whatever  happens,  Hadji  Mohammed  will 
but  wrap  his  baracan  more  closely  about  him 
and  mutter,  "Fate  is  irrevocable;  to  oppose  des- 
tiny is  sacrilege.    Allah,  Allahu!" 


[297] 


GLOSSARY 

a  =  a  in  f  other 
u  =  w  in  rule 

Addn,  the  call  to  prayer. 

Addax,  a  North  African  antelope. 

Akawali,  [Hausa]  a  black  horse. 

Arbar-Arsat,  Street  of  the  Four  Columns. 

Arfi,  master — used  in  addressing  Christians. 

Ar-r-rah!  used  to  start  a  horse. 

Ashen,  a  kingdom  just  south  of  Air,  southern  Sahara. 

Asbenawa,  people  of  Asben. 

Asgars,  Tuaregs  of  the  Asgar  tribe. 

Awasit,  the  second  ten  days  of  the  Mohammedan  month. 

Baksheesh,  a  gratuity. 

Baracan,  woollen  outer  garment  of  Tripolitans. 

Bashaw,  or  Basha,  Arabic  for  governor,  ruler. 

Berbers,  descendants  of  the  white  aborigines  of  Barbary  [Berber}]. 

Bishna,  millet. 

B'is  salamah!.  On  thy  peace! 

Burro,  go  on,  get  out. 

Chaca,  Hausa  gambling  game  played  with  cowries. 

Chott,  dried  lake. 

Cowries,  beautiful  white  shells  about  an  inch  long  used  as  cur- 
rency in  Sudan. 

Damerghu,  a  place  and  a  tribe  in  extreme  southern  Sahara  on 
Ghat-Kano  route. 

Datva,  [Hausa]  bread. 

Djema-el-Daruj,  Mosque  of  the  Steps. 

Djibana,  [Hausa]  the  place  of  the  Cemetery  of  the  Dog. 

Douar,  village. 

Esparto,  or  halfa,  a  grass  indigenous  to  Barbary. 

Firman,  [Turkish]  a  passport,  requiring  a  special  edict  of  the 
Turkish  sovereign  granting  permission  to  travel,  etc. 

Fonduk,  a  caravansary. 

Gangara,  [Greek]  sponge  boats  which  use  the  trawl. 

[299] 


GLOSSARY 

Gatrunys,  people  of  Gatrun,  a  town  in  central  Fezzan  on  Murzuk- 

Kanem  caravan  route. 
Gedash  ?,  how  much  ? 
Gibani!  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 
Gihli,  or  gibleh,  south-east  Desert  wind  which  often  terminates  in 

the  sand-storm. 
Gvl'phor,  a  room  in  a  seraglio  for  the  exclusive  use  of  the  master. 
Hadji  Ahmed,  a  camel  raiser  and  the  master  from  whom  Salam 

escaped. 
Haik,  an  outside  garment  of  colored  or  striped  cloth. 
Haifa  or  alja,  Arab  word  for  esparto  grass. 
Haifa  Suk,  Haifa  Market  where  esparto  or  halfa  grass  is  auc- 
tioned or  sold. 
Hashish,  an  intoxicating  preparation  made  from  tops  of  tender 

Indian  hemp  sprouts,  smoked,  drank,  or  taken  in  confections. 
Hubba!  an  exclamation  used  by  Hausas. 
Jamal,  camels  [draught  camels]. 
Jebel,  mountains  or  mountain  region. 
Jebel  Nagahza,  Nagahza  Mountains,  in  northern  Tripoli. 
Jebel  Gharian,  Gharian  Mountains  in  northern  Tripoli. 
Jehad,  a  Holy  War. 
Jemal,  camel  [draught  camel]. 
Jinnee,  a  Mohammedan  mythical  order  of  beings,  good  and  bad 

spirits. 
Kafir,  unbeliever. 
Kanijar,  dagger  knife. 
Kano,  the  great  metropolis  of  the  Sudan. 
Kasndlah,  knobbed  stick  carried  by  Tripolitans,  principally  at 

night. 
Kdowis,  Tuaregs  of  Kelowis  tribe  inhabiting  vicinity  of  Air, 

southern  Sahara. 
Kibleh,  sacred  niche  in  a  mosque  placed  to  indicate  the  direction 

of  Mecca. 
Kief,  dried  hemp  leaves,  smoked  in  pipes. 
Kouba,  a  saint's  house,  sometimes  called  a  marabout. 
Lah,  no. 

Lakby  or  lagbi,  a  palm  wine. 
Lasunvadi,  Salam's  brother-in-law. 
Lakoom,  a  Turkish  candy. 
Lazaretto,  [Italian]  quarantine. 
Lingua  franca,  a  mixture  of  Italian  with  Arabic,  Turkish,  etc. 

[300] 


1 


GLOSSARY 

Litham,  Tuareg  cloth  mask. 

Lokanda,  hostelry. 

Manometrom,  the  part  of  a  scaphandra  which  indicates  the  at- 
mospheric pressure. 

Marabout,  a  holy  man,  a  Mohammedan  saint,  also  a  kouba 
[saint's  house]. 

Maria,  [not  Arabic]  a  bucket  with  a  glass  bottom,  used  in  search- 
ing for  sponges. 

Mastica,  a  Turkish  drink. 

Mehari,  a  running  or  riding  camel. 

Mellah,  Jewish  quarter. 

Meradi  Katsena,  a  town  in  the  state  of  Sokoto,  Sudan. 

Moor,  a  town  dwelling  Arab. 

Orjella,  a  Tripolitan  tribe. 

Palanquin,  a  canopy  on  a  camel  or  donkey  under  which  women 
ride. 

Para,  small  Turkish  silver  coin,  one-tenth  of  a  cent  in  value. 

Pasha,  [Turkish]  governor,  ruler. 

Pradique,  quarantine  clearance. 

Ramadan,  annual  Mohammedan  fast  of  thirty  days  during  ninth 
Mohammedan  month. 

Redjed  Pasha,  military  governor  of  Tripoli. 

Roumi,  a  Mohammedan  epithet. 

Sala  Heba,  one  of  Salam's  masters,  sold  by  him  to  Hadji 
Ahmed. 

Sans  firman,  without  passport. 

Scandli,  [Greek]  a  flat  piece  of  marble  used  by  naked  divers  to 
accelerate  the  descent. 

Scaphander,  [Greek]  a  diver's  machine,  consisting  of  air-pump, 
suit,  helmet,  and  tube. 

Scaphandra,  [Greek]  a  Greek  sponge  diver  who  uses  a  scaphander. 

Sciara-el-Sciid,  a  suburb  of  Tripoli,  on  the  coast  in  the  oasis. 

Seraglio,  a  private  Moorish  palace. 

Suk,  market,  generally  held  in  open  spots  outside  the  towns  or  in 
the  oases. 

Suk-el-Halfa,  Haifa  market. 

Suk-el-Thalat,  Tuesday  market. 

Suk-el-Turc,  Turk's  market. 

Tebus  or  Tibbus,  a  tribe  inhabiting  the  Tibesti  Mountain  region 
east  of  the  Fezzan-Chad  caravan  route. 

Temenah,  or  Teymeeneh,  greeting. 

[301] 


GLOSSARY 

Tuaregs,  a  fierce  confederation  of  tribes,  who  occupy  and  control 
great  sections  of  the  western  half  of  the  Sahara.  The 
principal  tribes  are  the  Aweelimmiden,  Hoggars,  Asgars,  and 
Kelowis, 

Ugurra,  an  exclamation. 

Verghi,  poll  and  property  tax  imposed  by  Turks. 

Wadan,  country. 

Wadiy  a  river  or  dry  river  bed. 

Weled-bu-Sef,  a  Tripolitan  tribe. 

Yahudi,  a  Mohammedan  epithet. 

Yusef  Bashaw,  the  last  native  ruler  of  Tripoli  and  of  the  line  of 
Karamali. 

Zabtie  or  zaptiah,  a  Turkish  guardsman. 

Zintan,  a  district  back  of  Tripoli. 

Zinder,  a  Desert  town  south  of  the  Fezzan. 

Zerebas,  native  huts. 


[302] 


INDEX 


Africa,  296. 

Agriculture,  35-41,  48,  78,  193, 

194,  294,  295. 
Air,  80. 

Algeria,  1,  148,  285,  292. 
Algiers,  123. 

Animals,  wild,  237,  261,  282. 
Antiquities,  13-15,  241-242,  291, 

295. 
Arabs,  xxiv,  xxv,  xxvi,  8-9,  39, 

281,  282. 
Arbar-Arsat,  6,  13. 
Asben,  61. 

Atlas,  mountains,  4,  38,  51,  146, 
279,  282. 

Bainbridge,  Capt.,  101. 
Barb^.ry,  xxvi,  4,  121,  123,  146, 

281-282,  291. 
Barca,  2,  4. 
Bedawi,  35,   39,   192-195,  237, 

282,  290. 
Beggars,  7-8,  16. 
Bengazi,  93,  107. 
Berbers,  8-9,  39,  85. 
Birds,  53,  57,  237,  283. 
Blacks,  8,  10,  52,  71-72,  88,  156- 

157,   160,    161-163,    165-166, 
167,  281-282. 
Branding,  10. 

Camel,  riding  [mehari  or  mehara], 

43,  65,  66,  68. 
Camels,   16,  18,   146,   151,   159, 

177,  181,  208-233,  291. 
Caravan  routes,  4,  54,  78,  79,  80, 

173-174,    189,    243-244,   277, 

285,  287,  290-291,  295. 


Caravan   trade,    82,    120,    124, 

170-171,  173-192,  287,  294. 
Caravaneers,  177-178,  197-198, 

205,  256. 
Caravans  [Garflas],   50,   54,   55, 

56,  61,  62,  79,  81, 151, 195-196, 

205,  206,  216,  238,  289-291. 
Caravansaries.     See  Fonduks. 
Carthage,  xxiii. 
Castle  of  the  Bashaws,  2,  19,  20, 

21,  68,  100,  125,  195,  259. 
Ceremonies,  25-26,  71,  72. 
Chad,  Lake,  80. 
Character,     Tripohian,     32-33, 

36-37,  45-46,  234,  278,  297. 
Chmate,  30,  196,  281. 
Clothing,  8,  9,  16,  34-35,  45,  53, 

62,  71,  72,  89,  98,  103,  149, 

191-192,  216,  234-235,  265- 

266,  273,  274. 
Commerce,  44,  45,  61,  62,  79,  81, 

196,  206-207. 
Congo,  61. 

Cortugna,  Signer,  159. 
Cowrie  shells,  58-59. 
Crete  (war-ship),  117,  127,  129. 
Currency,  35,  45,  58-59. 
Custom-House,  5. 
Customs,  Tripolitan,  49. 

Damerghu,  81,  205-206. 
Dancing,  240. 
Date-palm,  41-42,  285. 
Decatur,  Lieut.,  100-101,  112. 
Dewey,  U.  S.  Dry  Dock,  122. 
Dickson,  Vice-Consul,  Alfred,  14, 

102. 
Dickson,  Dr.  Robert  G.,  14. 


[303] 


INDEX 


Divers,  131. 
Diving,  131,  132. 
Dragoman,  179. 
Dwellings,  6,  27-30,  194. 

Eaton,  General  William,  xxv. 
Egypt,  1,  2,  61,  157-158. 
Esparto  grass,  48,  120,  124. 
Esparto  industry,  124,  145-172. 
Europe,  1,  9. 
European  occupation,  xxiv,  xxv, 

xxvi,  4,  296-297. 
Europeans,  16. 
Evil  eye,  18-19,  59. 
Exports,  120,  123-124,  167,  171, 

196,  294. 

Fetiches,  19,  85,  99. 

Fezzan,  4,  42. 

Fighting,  31,  60,  64,  75,  81,  82, 

110-112,  152,  205-207. 
Firman.     »See  Passport. 
Flatters  expedition,  86-87. 
Flood,  23,  24. 
Fonduks  [caravansaries],  62, 184- 

188,  203-204,  259,  263-264. 
Food,  39,  41-42, 48, 98,  185,  234- 

235,  292. 
France,  1,  291-292,  296. 

Gambling,  58-59. 

Gardens,  188. 

Garflas.     See  Caravans. 

Gatrunys,  80. 

Ghadames,  65,  68,  77,  82,  83. 

Ghat,  77,  81. 

Great  Britain,  1. 

Greeks,  6. 

Greeting,  9. 

Hadj  or  hadji,  61. 
Hadji  el-Ouachi,  105. 
Hadji-Mohammed  Gabroom,  106, 

112. 
Haifa.     See  Esparto  grass, 
Eausaland,  54-55,  58-64,  174. 


Hausas,  10,  52-64. 
Horses,  43,  180. 
Hostelries,  6,  264,  269-270. 

Industries,  15-17,  193,  194. 
Intrepid,  U.  S.  ketch,  101,  112. 
Irrigating,  40-41. 
Italians,  6,  11. 
Italy,  297. 

Jefara,  263-264. 

Jehad  [Holy  War],  xxiv. 

Jews,  8,  10,  11,  45. 

Kabyles,  282. 

Kairwan,  16,  62. 

Kano,  16,  44,  61,  62,  81,  195, 196. 

Khoms,  238-246. 

Kibleh,  27. 

Knights  of  St.  John,  xxv,  96. 

Kola  nuts,  61,  63-64. 

Kussabat,  258-259. 

Lakby  or  palm  juice,  42,  59,  73. 

Lebda,  241-242. 

Lizards,  238. 

Lokanda.     See  Hostelries. 

Maltese,  11. 

Marabouts,  16,  49-50,  83. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  arch  of,  13-15. 

Mecca,  27,  61. 

Mediterranean,  1-2,  4,  100,  120- 

123,  124,  169,  279-280. 
Mehara.     See  Camel,  riding. 
Mehari.     See  Camel,  riding. 
Military,  11. 
Misurata,  16,  28. 
Moors,  16,  282. 
Morocco,  1,  123,  285. 
Mosques,  26,  27. 
Muezzins,  24,  240. 
Murzuk,  21,  201-202,  207. 
Music,  183,  256. 


Nelson,  Lord,  105. 


[304] 


INDEX 


Niger,  294. 

Night-watchman,  24-25. 
Nissen,  Mr.,  104. 
North  Africa,  2,  245,  279,  280. 

Oases,  40,  41,  67,  85,  145,  190, 

281,  284,  285. 
Ophthalmia,  7-8. 

Paralos  [corvette],  117,  127. 
Paralysis,  diver's,  126-129. 
Passport  [firman],  5,  266. 
People,  8,  16,  44-45,  61-62,  222, 

234-278,  281-282. 
Philadelphia,  U.  S.  frigate,  xxv, 

100-119. 
Phoenicians,  xxiii. 
Plants,  237,  282,  283. 
Plateaus,  4. 
Poetry,  229-230. 
Population,  15,  173,  281. 
Prisons,  21-22. 

Rain,  190,  295-296. 

Rais  Mohamed  Ga-wah-je,  181, 

182,  186. 
Ramadan,  38,  50,  109. 
Red  Sea,  61,  279. 
Redjed   Pasha,  5,  68,   100,  142, 

178-179,  266,  269,  278. 
Religion,  27,  33. 
Reptiles,  149. 
Riley,  Consul-Gen.  William  F., 

Introduction,  5,  116,  142. 
Roman  Empire,  xxiii,  xxiv,  13- 

15,  241-242,  292,  295. 


Saddles,  camel,  67,  223,  228. 

Sahara,  or  Great  Desert,  54,  63, 
65,  77,  85,  86,  173,  189,  193- 
207,  234,  239,  277,  279-297. 

Salam,  29,  52-76,  93. 

Sand-storm  [gibli  or  gibleh],  199- 
201,  229. 

Saunders,  Mr.  A.,  Introduction. 

Sciara-el-Sciut,  28,  111,  181. 

[305] 


Scorpion,  149-150,  163. 

Senusi,  93-94,  202-203. 

Seraglio,  28. 

Shops,  8,  15,  17. 

Sidi  Hassan,  277. 

Sidra,  Gulf  of,  4. 

Siren,  U.  S.  S.,  112. 

Slavery,  29-30,  52,  54-56,  59,  63, 

65,  69,  88,  170,  202-203. 
Social  life,  34-35. 
Sokoto,  56,  60,  61. 
Sponge  divers,  117,  120-144. 
Sponges,  124,  137,  139,  141,  142. 
Stewart,  Lieut.,  112. 
Streets,  6,  12,  15,  17. 
Sudan,  10,  52,  61,  94,  174. 
Suk,  The  [Tuesday  market],  21, 

43-51. 
Suks,  42-51,  79,  285-286. 
Superstitions,  18-19,  231. 

Tajura,  111. 

Tate,  Mr.,  243. 

Taxation,  36,  38,  40,  55,  59-60, 

62,  78,  259,  294. 
Tebus,  80. 

Thieving,  17-18,  26-27,  30-31, 
46-47,  187-188,  198-199,  204, 
234,  250-252,  260. 
Timbuktu,  77,  292. 
Trade  centres,  61-63,  174,  195. 
Transportation,    10,   42-43,   61, 

150-151. 
Tripoli,    History   of,    Historical 
Note, 
arrival  at,  4. 
city  of,  1-51,  173,  285, 

297. 
Pashahc  of,  1,  2,  4. 
character    of     country, 

145,  146. 
harbor  of,  101, 120,  121- 
123. 

Oasis  of,  181,  182. 
Tripolitania,  xxiii,  1,  2,  4,  294- 
297. 


INDEX 


Tuaregs,  43,  62,  64,  77-99,  282,  Vipers,  149. 

287,  288,  291. 

Tunis,  123.  Weapons,  62,  89-90,  95-97,  98, 

Tunisia,  xxiii,  1,  4,  61,  148,  292,  99,  247,  249-250,  257,  272. 

296.  Wells,  5-6,  35,  40-41,  236,  286- 

Turkey,  4,  294,  297.  288. 

Turkish  Army  and  Navy  Club,  Wild  animals,  282,  283. 

19,  20,  125,  242.  Winds.     See  Sand-storm. 

Turkish  exiles,  21.  Wrecks,  101,  115,  121-122. 
Turks,  11,  45,  240-241,  244,  265, 


270,  272,  273-275,  291. 

United  States,  xxv,  xxvi. 

Vandals,  xxiv. 
Venables,  W.  H.,  115. 


Yussef  [or  Yusef]  Bashaw,  28, 
104,  108,  109. 

Zabtie,  241,  277. 

Zinder,  64. 

Zolia,  M.  Auguste,  14. 


[306] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A  001  411  774  1 


